LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

MRS.  DONALD  KELLOGG 


THE    WORKS 


OF 


ALFRED,    LORD    TENNYSON 


Portrait  of  Tennyson. 
Etched  by  William  Unger. 


IStiitton  'oe  ILuxe 


THE    WORKS 


OF 


Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 

IPoet  laureate 

Edited  by  WILLIAM  J.  ROLFE,  Litt.  D. 


IN   TWELVE    VOLUMES 

Vol.  I. 


BOSTON 

DANA    ESTES    &    COMPANY 

Successors  to  Estes  &  Lauriat 
publish  ers 


lEtnition  tic  3Luxe 
Limited  to  One    Thousand  Copies 

No 5. 


Copyright,  1892  and  i8g^, 
By  Estes  and  Lalriat. 


TYPOGRAPHY,  ELECTROTYPING,  AND 
PRINTING  BY  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON, 
UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE. 


The  plan  of  this  edition  was  formed  by  the 
publishers  nearly  ten  years  ago,  and  was  then 
cordially  approved  by  the  poet  and  his  family. 
More  recently,  when  arrangements  for  carrying 
out  the  plan  were  perfected,  the  selection  of 
the  editor  was  no  less  heartily  ratified  by 
them.  Lord  Tennyson  had  already  given  me 
valuable  aid  in  revising  my  editions  of  *  The 
Princess'  and  other  of  his  poems;  and  in 
preparing  the  introduction  and  notes  for  this 
edition  of  his  works  I  have  been  indebted  to 
him  and  to  his  son,  the  present  Lord  Tenny- 
son, for  information  and  advice  which  no  one 
else  could  give  so  well. 

The  text  of  the  poems  in  this  edition  is  that 
of  the  latest  English  editions,  with  the  correc- 
tion of  many  little  typographical  errors.  Only 
a  few  of  these  are  mentioned  in  the  notes;  but 
I  have  been  careful  to  refer  to  every  one  con- 


vi  PREFACE. 

cerning  which  there  could  possibly  be  any 
doubt.  The  spelling  and  pointing  of  the 
English  editions  have  been  followed  with  rare 
exceptions,  which  have  been  explained  in  the 
notes  when  they  did  not  explain  themselves. 

No  poet  ever  made  more  textual  changes  in 
successive  editions  of  his  works  than  Tenny- 
son; and  many  of  these  have  been  recorded, 
with  more  or  less  accuracy,  by  Mr.  R.  H. 
Shepherd  in  his  '  Tcnnysoniana, '  the  Hon. 
J.  L.  Warren  in  the  'Fortnightly  Review,* 
and  other  critics  and  commentators.  These 
changes  are  particularly  frequent  in  the  early 
poems,  published  in  1830  and  1832,  in  'The 
Princess,'  and  in  the  *  Idylls  of  the  King.'  I 
believe  that  I  have  noted  all  the  changes  in 
the  poems  included  in  this  first  volume.  While 
engaged  in  annotating  some  of  these  poems 
ten  years  ago,  I  compared  the  later  text  with 
that  of  the  1830  and  1832  volumes  in  the 
British  Museum ;  and  for  my  work  on  the  rest 
of  them  for  this  edition  I  have  had  the  loan 
of  copies  of  those  volumes  belonging  to  Rev. 
Henry  van  Dyke,  D.  D.,  of  New  York,  to 
whose  friendly  help  and  counsel  I  have  been 
otherwise  greatly  indebted. 

Of  the  textual  changes  in  the  later  poems  I 


PREFACE.  vii 

shall  have  something  to  say  in  the  prefaces  to 
the  volumes  in  which  they  appear. 

I  am  aware  that  Lord  Tennyson  more  than 
once  expressed  a  certain  dislike  for  *  variorum 
editions;'  and  in  a  letter  thanking  me  for  my 
edition  of  '  The  Princess  '  he  said  he  was  sorry 
that  I  had  '  preserved  so  many  chips  and  shav 
ings  '  of  his  work.  But,  as  I  think  I  said  to 
him  later,  when  a  man  does  his  work  out  of 
doors  in  the  public  view  we  have  a  right  to 
be  interested  in  watching  him.  Whether  an 
editor  is  justified  in  printing  textual  variations 
found  only  in  an  author's  manuscript  may  be 
questioned;  but  what  one  has  printed  is  public 
property,  and  an  editor  may  use  it  at  his  dis- 
cretion in  writing  the  history  of  the  work.  If 
an  author  suppresses  anything  for  personal 
reasons,  —  as  Tennyson  suppressed  the  early 
verses  addressed  to  Christopher  North  and 
Bulwer  Lytton,  —  it  is  doing  him  an  injustice 
to  reprint  them  without  stating  the  fact  of 
their  withdrawal ;  but  it  is  no  injustice  to  give 
the  history  of  the  passage-at-arms  between  the 
two  literary  men,  with  the  squibs  bandied 
between  them. 

But  the  poet's  figure  is  not  so  apt  as  it  may 
seem   at   first   sight.     To   record    his   various 


viii  PREFACE. 

readings  is  not  mere  picking  up  of  chips  and 
shavings.  A  poem  is  a  work  of  art;  and  if, 
after  finishing  it  and  placing  it  on  exhibition, 
the  artist  retouches  it,  altering  a  feature  here 
and  another  there,  it  becomes  to  that  extent 
a  new  work,  and  the  student  and  critic  may 
properly  and  profitably  compare  the  work  as  it 
was  with  the  work  as  it  is.  It  is  the  finished 
product  that  he  saves  when  he  records  its 
earlier  form,  not  the  *  chips  and  shavings ' 
left  in  finishing  it. 

In  the  introduction  I  have  been  under  special 
obligations  for  biographical  details  to  the  au- 
thorities (Napier,  Jennings,  and  Mrs.  Ritchie) 
commended  to  me  by  the  poet  and  the  present 
Lord  Tennyson  as,  on  the  whole,  the  most 
trustworthy.  I  found,  as  they  intimated  that 
I  might,  occasional  inaccuracies  in  all  these, 
—  as  also  in  Mr.  Waugh's  'Alfred  Lord 
Tennyson,'  which  I  did  not  see  until  my 
sketch  was  in  type.  When  I  was  in  doubt 
whether  certain  statements  were  accurate  or 
not,  I  consulted  the  present  Lord  Tennyson, 
who  kindly  settled  the  question. 

Credit  for  extracts  from  reviews  and  criti- 
cisms of  the  poems  has  been  duly  given,  both 
in  the  introduction  and  in  the  notes. 


PREFACE.  ix 

The  illustrations,  with  which  I  have  had 
very  little  to  do,  can  speak  for  themselves.  I 
may,  however,  add  that  the  poet  and  his  family 
were  particularly  gratified  that  the  admirable 
sketches  by  Edward  Lear  (to  whom  the  lines 
*  To  E.  L. '  were  addressed),  which  no  former 
publisher  had  been  willing  to  go  to  the  ex- 
pense of  reproducing,  were  to  be  used  in  this 
edition. 

VV.  J.  R. 

Cambridge,  February  i,  1895. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

THE  LIFE  AND  WORKS  OF  LORD  TENNYSON  i 

TO  THE  QUEEN , 131 

JUVENILIA. 

Claribel ,    .  133 

Nothing  will  Die 135 

All  Things  will  Die 137 

Leonine  Elegiacs 140 

Supposed  Confessions 142 

The  Kraken 151 

Song i^ 

Lilian 153 

Isabel i^c 

Mariana jrg 

To 162 

Madeline 16^ 

Song  —  The  Owl       167 

Second  Song  — To  the  Same 168 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights     ...  169 

Ode  to  Mejiory 177 

Song 183 

A  Character 185 

The  Poet 187 


xii  CONTENTS. 

Page 

The  Poet's  Mind 190 

The  Sea-Fairies 192 

The  Deserted  House 195 

The  Dying  Swan 197 

A  Dirge 200 

Love  and  Death 203 

The  Ballad  of  Oriana 204 

Circumstance 209 

The  Merman 210 

The  Mermaid 213 

■' — 'ii:D^iNE 216 

Margaret 220 

Rosalind 224 

Eleanore 227 

'  My  Life  is  full  of  weary  Days  ' 234 

Early  Sonnets 236 

To 236 

To  J.  M.  K 237 

'Mine  be  the  Strength  of  Spirit'  ....  238 

Alexander 239 

Buonaparte 240 

Poland 241 

'Caress'd  or  chidden  by  the  slender  Hand'  242 

'The  Form,  the  Form  alone  is  eloquent'  .  243 

'  Wan  Sculptor,  weepest  thou  to  take  the 

Cast' 244 

'If  I  were  loved,  as  I  desire  to  be'       .    .  245 

The  Bridesmaid 246 

THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott 247 

Mariana  in  the  South 256 


CONTENTS.  Xlll 

Page 

The  Two  Voices 261 

The  Miller's  Daughter 287 

Fatima 299 

CEnone 302 

The  Sisters 315 

NOTES 317 


IStiition  tie  3Luxc» 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Vol.  I. 

Portrait  of  Tennyson  (1844) Titlepage 

From  the  painting  by  Samuel  Laurence. 

roRTR.A.lT  OF  TENNYSON Frontispiece 

Etched  by  William  Unger. 

SoMERSBY  House,  Lincolnshire 10 

Photogravure  from  photograph. 

Farringford,  Freshwater,  Isle  of  Wight    ...      40 

Photogravure  from  photograph. 

Victoria 130 

Mezzotint  by  G.  W.  H.  Ritchie. 

^*  Airy,  fairy  Lilian."  —  Lilian 154 

Photogravure  from  painting  by  Maud  Humphrey. 

''  When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch." —  The  Owl    .     166 
Photogravure  from  painting  by  E.  H.  Garrett. 

"  Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone." 174 

—  Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 
Etched  from  painting  by  W.  St.  John  Harper. 

"  Thou  leddest  by  the  hand  thine  infant  Hope."      .     .     .     178 

—  Ode  to  Memory. 
Photo-etching  from  painting  by  Maud  Humphrey. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page 

"  And  like  a  bride  of  old 

In  triumph  led." — Ode  to  Memory 184 

Photogravure  from  painting  by  Louis  Meynelle. 

"  Who  would  be 
A  mermaid  fair, 
Singing  alone, 

Combing  her  hair  ? " — The  Mermaid 212 

Photo-etching  from  painting  by  F.  S.  Church. 

"  So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk, 

And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine." 288 

—  The  Miller's  Daughter. 
Photogravure  from  drawing  by  H.  Winthrop  Peirce. 


THE    LIFE    AND    WORKS 


OF 


LORD     TENNYSON. 


Alfred  Tennyson  was  born  on  the  6th  of  August, 
1809,  at  Somersby,  a  small  village  in  Lincolnshire, 
about  six  miles  from  the  market  town  of  Horncastle. 
Its  population,  now  somewhat  diminished,  was  then 
about  sixty  souls.  Of  this  and  the  neighbouring  par- 
ish of  Bag  Enderby,  the  Rev.  George  Clayton  Tenny- 
son, Alfred's  father,  was  rector.  He  was  graduated  at 
St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  in  1801  ;  and  in  1805 
he  married  Elizabeth,  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Stephen 
Fytche,  vicar  of  Louth. 

In  the  ancestry  of  the  poet  '  two  lines  are  blended, 
the  middle-class  line  of  the  Tennysons,  and  the  noble 
and  even  royal  line  of  the  D'Eyncourts.'  The  former 
family  is  known  to  have  lived  at  Holdernesse,  in  York- 
shire, in  the  first  half  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The 
D'Eyncourts  can  trace  their  descent  from  John  of 
Gaunt,  fourth  son  of  Edward  III.,  who  married  Katha- 
rine Sw}Tiford.     '  The  marriage  was  irregular,  but  the 

VOL.    I. —  I 


2  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

children  of  it  were  legitimated  by  Act  of  Parliament  in 
the  reign  of  Henry  V.,  only  without  the  rights  of  suc- 
cession to  the  crown.'  Following  the  line  of  descent 
from  John  of  Gaunt,  we  come  to  Edmund,  Duke  of 
Somerset,  who  was  killed  at  the  first  battle  of  St.  Al- 
bans. In  the  fourth  generation  from  him,  Anne, 
daughter  of  Sir  Edward  Gary,  married  Sir  Francis 
Leke,  of  Sutton,  Yorkshire,  who  was  created  Baron 
Deincourt  in  1624.  His  great-grandson,  Ghristo- 
pher  Hildyard,  married  Jane,  daughter  of  George 
Pitt,  who  was  descended  from  Lionel,  Duke  of  Glar- 
ence ;  and  Ghristopher's  daughter  Dorothy,  who  mar- 
ried George  Clayton  of  Great  Grimsby,  was  the  great- 
grandmother  of  the  Rev.  George  Clayton  Tennyson, 
the  poet's  father.^ 

The  barony  of  Deincourt  was  the  revival  of  an 
earlier  peerage,  and  with  this  also  the  Tennysons  are 
connected ;  the  Jane  Pitt  who  married  Christopher 
Hildyard  being  the  descendant,  in  the  eleventh  gener- 
ation, of  John,  twelfth  Baron  d'Eyncourt  of  Blankney, 
who  lived  in  the  early  part  of  the  fifteenth  century. 

It  may  be  noted  incidentally  that  the  poet's  mother 
was  a  great-granddaughter  of  a  Monsieur  Fauvelle,  a 
French  Huguenot,  who  was  related  to  Madame  de 
Maintenon. 

1  For  the  line  of  descent  in  full,  see  Church's  '  The  Laure- 
ate's Country,'  or  Foster's  '  The  Royal  Lineage  of  our  Noble 
and  Great  Families.* 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON  3 

The  Rev,  Dr.  Tennyson  (he  received  the  degree 
of  LL.D.  in  1813)  was  a  man  notable  for  his  stature 
and  strength,  and  talented  withal,  being  'something 
of  a  poet,  painter,  architect,  and  musician,  and  also 
a  considerable  linguist  and  mathematician.'  He  had 
twelve  children,  eight  sons  and  four  daughters.  The 
eldest  son,  George,  died  in  infancy ;  the  others  v*'ere 
Frederick  (born  June  5,  1807),  Charles  (July  4, 
1808),  Alfred,  Edward,  Arthur,  Septimus,  and  Ho- 
ratio. The  daughters  were  Mary,  Emilia,  Matilda, 
and  Cecilia.  Of  the  sons  Alfred,  though  the  greatest, 
was  not  the  only  poet.  Frederick  has  published  sev- 
eral volumes  of  verse  ('Days  and  Hours,'  1854,  'The 
Isles  of  Greece,'  1890,  etc.)  ;  and  Charles,  who  after- 
wards took  the  name  of  Turner  on  inheriting  certain 
property  from  a  relative,  is  particularly  noted  for  his 
sonnets,  published  with  other  poems,  in  1830,  1864, 
1868,  1873,  and  1880.'  A  sonnet  by  Edward  Ten- 
nyson was  printed  in  the  '  Yorkshire  Literary  Annual ' 
for  1832  ;  and  it  is  said  that  most,  if  not  all,  of  the 
other  brothers  have  written  poetry. 

Mrs.  Anne  Thackeray  Ritchie  (in  '  Harper's  Maga- 
zine '  for  December,  1883)  gives  a  pleasant  picture 
of  the  Tennyson  children  at  Somersby  :  — 

^  '  Collected  Sonnets,  Old  and  New,'  issued  after  his  death, 
which  occurred  in  1879.  The  volume  is  prefaced  by  his  brother 
Alfred's  lines,  *  Midnight,  June  30,  1879,'  and  contains  a  me- 
moir by  Hallam  Tennyson  and  an  Introductory  Essay  by  James 
Spedding. 


4  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

They  were  a  noble  little  clan  of  poets  and  of  knights, 
coming  of  a  knightly  race,  with  castles  to  defend,  with 
mimic  tournaments  to  fight.  Somersby  was  so  far  away 
from  the  world,  so  behindhand  in  its  echoes  (which 
must  have  come  there  softened  through  all  manner  of 
green  and  tranquil  scenes,  and,  as  it  were,  hushed  into 
pastoral  silence),  that,  though  the  early  part  of  the  cen- 
tur}'  was  stirring  with  the  clang  of  legions,  few  of  its 
rumours  seem  to  have  reached  the  children.  They  never 
heard,  at  the  time,  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo.  They  grew 
up  together,  playing  their  own  games,  living  their  own 
life.  .  .  .  These  handsome  children  had  beyond  most 
children  that  wondrous  toy  at  their  command  which 
some  people  call  imagination.  The  boys  played  great 
games,  like  Arthur's  knights ;  they  were  champions  and 
warriors  defending  a  stone  heap,  or  again  they  would  set 
up  opposing  camps  with  a  king  in  the  midst  of  each. 
The  king  was  a  willow  wand  stuck  into  the  ground,  with 
an  outer  circle  of  immortals  to  defend  him  of  firmer, 
stiffer  sticks.  Then  each  party  would  come  with  stones, 
hurling  at  each  other's  king,  and  trying  to  overthrow  him. 
Perhaps  as  the  day  wore  on  they  became  romancers,  leav- 
ing the  jousts  deserted.  When  dinner-time  came,  and  they 
all  sat  round  the  table,  each  in  turn  put  a  chapter  of  his 
history  under  the  potato-bowl,  —  long,  endless  histories, 
chapter  after  chapter  diffuse,  absorbing,  unending,  as  are 
the  stories  of  real  life  of  which  each  sunrise  opens  on  a 
new  part ;  some  of  these  romances  were  in  letters,  like 
'  Clarissa  Harlowe.'  Alfred  used  to  tell  a  story  which 
lasted  for  months,  and  which  was  called  '  The  Old  Horse.' 

The  same  writer  tells  us  of  the  poet's  earliest  at- 
tempts at  verse :  — 

Alfred's  first  verses,  so  I  once  heard  him  say,  were 
written  upon  a  slate  which  his  brother  Charles  put  into 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  5 

his  hand  one  Sunday  at  Louth,  when  all  the  elders  of  the 
party  were  going  into  church,  and  the  child  was  left  alone. 
Charles  gave  him  a  subject,  —  the  flowers  in  the  garden,  — 
and  when  he  came  back  from  church  little  Alfred  brought 
the  slate  to  his  brother,  all  covered  with  written  lines  of 
blank  verse.  They  were  made  on  the  models  of  Thom- 
son's '  Seasons,'  the  only  poetry  he  had  ever  read.  One 
can  picture  it  all  to  one's  self,  —  the  flowers  in  the  garden, 
the  verses,  the  little  poet  with  waiting  eyes,  and  the  young 
brother  scanning  the  lines.  '  Yes,  you  can  write,'  said 
Charles,  and  he  gave  Alfred  back  the  slate. 

I  have  also  heard  another  story  of  his  grandfather, 
later  on,  asking  him  to  write  an  elegy  on  his  grandmother, 
who  had  recently  died,  and  when  it  was  written,  putting 
ten  shillings  into  his  hands  and  saying,  '  There,  that  is 
the  first  money  you  have  ever  earned  by  your  poetr}',  and, 
take  my  word  for  it,  it  will  be  the  last.' 

When  Alfred  was  in  his  earliest  teens  —  long  before 
the  production  of  the  '  Poems  by  Two  Brothers  '  —  he 
wrote  an  epic  in  three  books ;  it  was  full  of  furious 
battles  and  descriptions  of  lake  and  mountain  scen- 
ery. He  used  to  compose  sixty  or  seventy  lines  in  a 
breath,  and  shout  them  about  the  silent  fields,  leaping 
over  the  hedges  in  his  excitement.  When  they  pub- 
lished Shelley's  early  poems,  or  on  some  such  occa- 
sion, he  flung  the  epic  into  the  fire.  His  father,  who, 
as  already  stated,  was  a  poet  himself,  thought  so 
highly  of  the  original,  imaginative,  and  creative  power 
of  the  boy  that  he  prophesied  he  would  be  the  great- 
est poet  of  the  time.^ 

1  This  I  get  from  the  best  possible  authority,  and  think  it 
has  not  been  in  print  before. 


6  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

William  Howitt,  in  his  '  Homes  and  Haunts  of 
the  British  Poets,'  gives  the  earliest  description  of 
Somersby  that  I  know  of,  and  one  of  the  best :  — 

The  native  village  of  Tennyson  is  not  situated  in  the 
fens,  but  in  a  pretty,  pastoral  district  of  softly  sloping  hills 
and  large  ash-trees ;  it  is  not  based  on  bogs,  but  on  a 
clean  sandstone.  There  is  a  little  glen  in  the  neighbour- 
hood called  by  the  old  monkish  name  of  Holywell.  Over 
the  gateway  leading  to  it,  some  bygone  squire  has  put  up 
an  inscription,  a  medley  of  Virgil  and  Horace :  — 

Intus  aquae  dulces,  vivoque  sedilia  saxo, 

Et  paulum  silvae  superest.     His  utere  mecum ; 

and  within,  a  stream  of  clear  water  gushes  out  of  a  sand- 
rock,  and  over  it  stands  an  old  schoolhouse,  almost  lost 
among  the  trees,  and  of  late  years  used  as  a  woodhouse, 
its  former  distinction  only  signified  by  a  Scripture  text  on 
the  walls,  — '  Remember  thy  Creator  in  the  days  of  thy 
youth.'  There  are  also  two  brooks  in  this  valley  which 
flow  into  one  at  the  bottom  of  the  glebe-field,  and  by 
these  the  young  poet  used  to  wander  and  meditate.  To 
this  scenery  we  find  him  turning  back  in  his  '  Ode  to 
Memory ' :  — 

Come  from  the  woods  that  belt  the  gray  hillside, 
The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 
That  stand  beside  my  father's  door, 
And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 
To  purl  o'er  matted  cress  and  ribbed  sand. 
Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves, 
Drawing  into  his  narrow  earthen  urn, 

In  every  elbow  and  turn, 
The  filter'd  tribute  of  the  rough  woodland. 

O,  hither  lead  thy  feet  1 
Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong  bleat 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON-.  7 

Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled  folds, 

Upon  the  ridged  wolds, 
When  the  first  matin-song  hath  waken'd  loud 
Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn, 
What  time  the  amber  morn 
Forth  gushes  from  beneath  a  low-hung  cloud. 

In  the  churchyard  stands  a  Norman  cross,  almost  single 
of  its  kind  in  England. 

The  short-lived  poplars,  after  the  lapse  of  three 
quarters  of  a  century,  are  no  more  to  be  seen,  but  the 
'  seven  elms '  are  still  standing  in  the  garden  behind 
the  house,  which  is  now  the  property  of  the  lord  of 
the  manor,  who  gave  in  exchange  a  house  at  Bag 
Enderby,  to  be  used  as  a  rectory. 

Some  imaginative  writers  have  endeavoured  to  iden- 
tify the  Somersby  brook  with  the  one  that  sings  so 
charming  a  song  in  that  fascinating  idyl,  *  The  Brook ; ' 
but  this  cannot  fairly  be  done,  though  there  are  points 
of  resemblance  between  the  two  streamlets.  It  is 
true,  as  Mr.  Church  notes,  that  at  Somersby  — 

there  are  '  hazel  covers '  and  '  sweet  forget-me-nots  '  and 
'  many  a  silvery  waterbreak  above  the  golden  gravel ; ' 
and  the  rivulet  may  say,  as  the  'babbling  brook'  did 
to  its  questioner,  — 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways,    ' 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 
I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 

By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 
And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 

With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 


8  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

But  there  are  some  things  in  its  supposed  prototype 
which  manifestly  it  could  not  claim.  It  does  not  hurry 
down,  for  instance,  by  '  thirty  hills,'  for  it  soon  makes 
its  way  into  the  low  countrj',  nor  is  there  a  '  brimming 
river '  for  it  to  join.  Finally,  it  cannot  make  at  least  one- 
half  of  the  boast  that  it  holds  — 

Here  and  there  a  lusty  trout 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling. 

There  may  be,  or  anyhow  have  been,  trout  in  the  brook, 
but  scarcely  a  grayling. 

Alfred  received  his  first  education  from  his  father 
and  the  village  schoolmaster,  who  came  up  to  the 
rectory  to  give  lessons  to  him  and  his  brothers.  Later 
he  went  to  the  grammar  school  at  Louth,  where  he  re- 
mained several  years,  but,  so  far  as  he  remembered  in 
later  life,  learned  very  little.  Tradition  says  that  the 
head-master,  the  Rev.  J.  Waite,  like  Horace's  teacher, 
Orbilius,  'was  plagosus,  fond  of  blows.'  As  Mr. 
Church  remarks,  '  there  would  have  been  no  little  dif- 
ficulty at  that  time  to  find  a  schoolmaster  who  was 
anything  else.' 

From  Alfred's  return  to  Somersby  in  1820  until  he 
went  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  in  1828,  his  father 
was  his  instructor  :  — 

Much  of  course  was  self-acquired,  for  he  was  always  a 
great  reader.  At  the  same  time  it  is  probable  that  the 
recollections  of  his  boyhood  and  early  youth,  as  they 
have  been  given  to  curious  inquirers  by  old  inhabitants, 
have  received  some  colour  from  what  they  had  heard  of 
his  after  career.    The  picture  of  the  shy  student,  wander- 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON-.  9 

ing  about,  book  in  hand  or  wrapped  in  some  deep  reverie, 
does  not  agree  with  the  poet's  own  recollections  of  his 
life  at  Somersby.  One  of  his  most  vivid  recollections  is 
of  how  he  and  his  elder  brother  Charles  were  wont  to  de- 
fend one  of  the  bridges  over  the  Somersby  brook  against 
superior  numbers  of  the  village  boys.  Against  three  or 
four  or  even  five  they  could  hold  their  own,  but  on  one 
occasion,  when  the  attacking  force  doubled  this  last  num- 
ber, they  were  obliged,  he  remembers,  to  retreat.^ 

The  Somersby  church  is  a  small  edifice  in  the 
Early  Perpendicular  style,  with  '  a  very  squat  tower,  a 
nave  with  a  north  aisle,  and  a  chancel.'  It  is  built 
of  sandstone,  but  has  been  much  repaired  with  brick. 
The  interior  has  been  *  restored '  since  Dr.  Tenny- 
son's time,  giving  it  a  modem  look  which  is  not  in 
keeping  with  the  picturesque  old  exterior.  To  the 
west  of  the  tower  is  a  flat  stone,  enclosed  with  high 
railings,  and  bearing  the  following  inscription  :  — 

TO    THE    MEMORY    OF 
THE    REVEREND 

GEORGE  CLAYTON  TENNYSON, 

LL.  D., 

ELDEST    SON    OF    GEORGE    TENNYSON,    ESQ., 

OF   BAYONS    MANOR, 

AND   RECTOR   OF  THIS   PARISH 

OF    BAG    ENDERBY    AND    BENNIWORTH 

AND   VICAR   OF   GREAT  GRIMSBY 

IN   THIS    COUNTY. 

HE    DEPARTED    THIS    LIFE 

ON    THE    i6tH    day    OF    MARCH,    183I 

AGED  FIFTY -TWO  YEARS. 

^  Church. 


lO  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

In  the  spring  of  1827,  a  volume  entitled  'Poems 
by  Two  Brothers '  was  published  by  Mr.  J.  Jackson, 
a  bookseller  at  Louth,  who  engaged  to  pay  ten 
pounds  for  the  copyright,  and  actually  paid  twenty. 
The  two  brothers  were  Charles  and  Alfred  Tennyson. 
They  intended  at  first  to  affix  their  initials  to  the 
pieces  of  which  they  were  respectively  the  authors, 
but  subsequently  decided  to  let  the  book  appear 
anonymously.  The  titlepage  bears  the  motto,  *  Haec 
nos  novimus  esse  nihil,'  from  Martial ;  and  the  preface 
(which  Mr.  Wace  strangely  calls  *  somewhat  lengthy ') 
is  as  follows  :  — 

The  following  poems  were  written  from  the  ages  of 
fifteen  to  eighteen,  not  conjointly,  but  individually ;  which 
may  account  for  their  difference  of  style  and  matter.  To 
light  upon  any  novel  combination  of  images  or  to  open 
any  vein  of  sparkling  thought  untouched  before,  were  no 
easy  task  :  indeed,  the  remark  itself  is  as  old  as  the  truth 
is  clear ;  and,  no  doubt,  if  submitted  to  the  microscopic 
eye  of  periodical  criticism,  a  long  list  of  inaccuracies  and 
imitations  would  result  from  the  investigation.  But  so  it 
is  :  we  have  passed  the  Rubicon,  and  we  leave  the  rest  to 
fate,  though  its  edict  may  create  a  fruitless  regret  that  we 
ever  emerged  from  'the  shade,'  and  courted  notoriety. 
March,  1827. 

A  poetical  prelude  follows,  ending  thus  :  — 

Such  are  the  sweets  of  song —  and  in  this  age, 
Perchance  too  many  in  its  lists  engage : 
And  they  who  now  would  fain  awake  the  lyre. 
May  swell  this  supernumerary  choir: 


Sontersby  House,  Lincolnshire. 
Photogravure  from  photograph. 


J 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  II 

But  ye,  who  deign  to  read,  forget  t'  apply 

The  searching  microscope  of  scrutiny : 

Few  from  too  near  inspection  fail  to  lose. 

Distance  on  all  a  mellowing  haze  bestows ; 

And  who  is  not  indebted  to  that  aid 

Which  throws  his  failures  into  welcome  shade  ? 

There  are  one  hundred  and  two  poems  in  the  two 
hundred  and  twenty-eight  pages  of  the  book;  and 
the  subjects  are  drawn  from  all  ages  and  all  lands,  as  a 
few  of  the  titles  may  serve  to  show  :  '  Antony  to  Cleopa- 
tra; '  '  The  Gondola  ; '  '  Written  by  an  Exile  of  Basso- 
rah,  sailing  down  the  Euphrates  ; '  '  Persia ; '  '  Egypt ; ' 

*  The  Druid's  Prophecies  ; '  '  Swiss  Song ; '  '  The  Ex- 
pedition of  Nadir  Shah  into  Hindostan ; '  '  Greece  ; ' 

*  The  Maid  of  Savoy ; '  '  Scotch  Song ; '  '  God's  De- 
nunciations against  Pharaoh-Hophra ; '  '  The  Death 
of  Lord  Byron;'  'The  Fall  of  Jerusalem ;'  *  Eulo- 
gium  on  Homer ; '  '  The  Scenery  of  South  America ; ' 

*  Babylon ;  '  '  Phrenology ; '  '  Exhortation  to  the 
Greeks ; '  '  King  Charles's  Vision ; '  etc.  They  are 
often  introduced  by  quotations ;  among  others,  from 
Addison,  Byron,  Cicero,  Claudian,  Gray,  Horace, 
Hume,  Lucretius,  Milton,  Moore,  Ovid,  Racine,  Rous- 
seau, Sallust,  Scott,  Tacitus,  Terence,  and  Virgil. 
There  are  also  frequent  foot-notes,  which  are  more 
learned  than  we  should  expect  from  boys  of  seventeen 
or  eighteen,  and  yet  without  the  affectation  of  scholar- 
ship that  we  might  expect  in  connection  with  such  a 
juvenile  display  of  erudition. 


12  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

The  present  Lord  Tennyson  has  done  well,  I  think, 
in  consenting  to  a  reprint  of  these  poems  since  his 
father's  death.  They  have  an  historical  interest,  and 
are  worthy  of  preservation  for  their  own  sake.  Be- 
sides, they  have  been  reprinted  several  times  in  this 
country  without  authority,  and  with  some  inaccura- 
cies; so  that  a  careful  reproduction  of  the  exces- 
sively rare  volume  was  desirable  on  this  account  if  on 
no  other. 

In  text  and  arrangement  of  pages  the  reprint  is  a 
facsimile  of  the  1827  edition.  The  poems  are,  how- 
ever, signed  with  the  initials  of  the  authors,  on  the 
authority  of  Frederick  Tennyson,  who,  as  we  now 
learn,  himself  contributed  four  pieces  to  the  collec- 
tion. Of  the  authorship  of  these,  of  course,  he  can 
speak  positively,  but  he  states  that  he  'cannot  be 
sure  of  the  others.'  Four  poems  are  appended  which 
were  in  the  original  manuscript  of  1827,  but  were 
omitted  '  for  some  forgotten  reason '  when  it  was 
printed.  The  prize  poem  of  '  Timbuctoo '  is  also 
included  in  this  reprint. 

We  can  trace  in  many  of  the  poems  the  influence 
of  Byron,  who  is  quoted  six  times,  and  whose  re- 
cent death  is  the  subject  of  one  poem  and  is  referred 
to  in  another.  Mrs.  Ritchie  tells  how  the  news  of 
Byron's  death  affected  Alfred  at  fifteen  :  —  *  "  Byron 
was  dead  !  I  thought  the  whole  world  was  at  an 
end,"  he  once  said,  speaking  of  those  bygone  days; 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON. 


13 


"I  thought  everything  was  over  and  finished  for 
every  one,  —  that  nothing  else  mattered.  I  remem- 
ber I  walked  out  alone,  and  carved  *  Byron  is  dead ' 
into  the  sandstone."  ' 

Critics  have  often  exercised  their  ingenuity  in  at- 
tempts to  pick  out  Alfred's  work  from  the  contents  of 
this  anonymous  volume ;  and  it  now  appears  that 
they  have  generally  been  right  in  regard  to  the  ten 
or  more  poems  they  have  assigned  to  him.  Some  of 
these  have  been  recognised  by  verbal  resemblances 
between  the  juvenile  verses  and  the  acknowledged 
productions  of  the  Laureate.  To  give  an  illustration, 
these  lines  in  *  The  Valley  of  Bones,' 

At  times  her  partial  splendour  shines 
Upon  the  grove  of  deep-black  pines, 

remind  one  of  '  The  Two  Voices  ' :  — 

Sometimes  a  little  corner  shines 

As  over  rainy  mist  inclines 

A  gleaming  crag  with  belts  of  pines. 

Aside  from  this  parallel,  I  should  have  no  hesitation 
in  ascribing  '  The  Valley  of  Bones  '  to  Alfred,  for  it  is 
one  of  the  best  things  in  the  book.  His  poems 
average  decidedly  better  than  Charles's,  especially  in 
ease  and  grace  of  versification,  in  descriptions  of 
nature,  and  in  sustained  imaginative  power.  As  a 
rule,  the  longer  poems  are  his,  though  the  longest, 
'  The  Oak  of  the  North,'  which  I  have  always  sup- 


14  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

posed  to  be  his — for  it  could  not  be  Charles's  — 
proves  now  to  be  Frederick's.     Charles  has  a  certain 
facility  in  versifying,  though  looser  in  rhyming  than 
Alfred  —  for  instance,  admitting    such    combinations 
zsform,  charm;  lid,  beside;   zeal,  real ;  morn,  lawn, 
etc.     Alfred's  rhymes  are  generally  faultless,  the  only 
very  bad  one  that  I  note  being  dwelling,  Ellen,  in   a 
short  piece  which,  if  it  were  not  signed  '  A.  T.,'  I 
should  unhesitatingly  assign  to  Charles.     It  may  be 
his,  for  I  suspect  in  several  instances  that  Frederick 
has  made  mistakes  in  the  signatures.     He  appends  a 
(?)  to  some  poems  concerning  which  I  should  have 
no  doubt.     The  lines  on  page  164,  *  Ah  !  yes,  the  lip 
may   faintly  smile,'  marked  'A.  T.  (?),'   are  almost 
certainly  Charles's  ;  and  the  same  maybe  said  of  those 
on  page    178,  'How  gaily  sinks  the  gorgeous  sun,' 
similarly  marked.    'The  Dying  Christian  '  (page  175), 
signed  '  A.  T.  or  C.  T.,'  unquestionably  belongs  to 
the  latter.     This  is  clear  from  internal  evidence  ;  and 
it  is  confirmed  by  the  fact   that  nearly  all  the  other 
poems  which  have  a  religious  turn  (pages  18,  88,  98, 
118,  152,  172,  etc.)  are  ascribed  to  Charles.     'The 
Deity'  (page  T09),  also  signed  'A.  T.  or  C.  T.,'  be- 
longs in  this  class,  and  must  be  Charles's.     All  these 
poems  may  be  comprehensively  described  as  '  poor 
and  pious.'     'Remorse'  (p.   20),  the  only  piece  in 
this  vein  which  is  unmistakably  Alfred's,  reminds  me 
much  of  the  '  Confessions  of  a  Second-rate  Sensitive 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  15 

Mind,'  published  in  iiis  1830  volume,  but  suppressed 
until  within  a  few  years. 

To  illustrate  the  treatment  of  nature  by  the  brothers, 
take  first  this  from  Charles's  description  of  a  thunder- 
storm (page  122) : — 

The  storm  is  brooding  !  —  I  would  see  it  pass, 

Observe  its  tenor,  and  its  progress  trace. 

How  dark  and  dun  the  gathering  clouds  appear, 

Their  rolling  thunders  seem  to  rend  the  ear ! 

But  faint  at  first,  they  slowly,  sternly  rise, 

From  mutt'rings  low  to  peals  which  rock  the  skies, 

As  if  at  first  their  fury  they  forbore. 

And  nursed  their  terrors  for  a  closing  roar. 

And  hark  !  they  rise  into  a  loftier  sound. 

Creation's  trembling  objects  quake  around; 

In  silent  awe  the  subject  nations  hear 

Th'  appalling  crash  of  elemental  war ; 

The  lightning,  too,  each  eye  in  dimness  shrouds, 

The  fiery  progeny  of  clashing  clouds. 

That  carries  death  upon  its  blazing  wing, 

And  the  keen  tortures  of  th'  electric  sting ; 

Not  like  the  harmless  flash  on  summer's  eve 

(When  no  rude  blasts  their  silent  slumbers  leave), 

Which,  Hke  a  radiant  vision  to  the  eye. 

Expands  serenely  in  the  placid  sky  ; 

It  rushes  fleeter  than  the  swiftest  wind. 

And  bids  attendant  thunders  wait  behind  : 

Quick  —  forked  —  livid,  thro'  the  air  it  flies, 

A  moment  blazes  —  dazzles  —  bursts  —  and  dies  : 

Another,  and  another  yet,  and  still 

To  each  replies  its  own  allotted  peal. 

These  are  good  schoolboy  verses ;  but  are  not  these, 


1 6  THE  LIFE  AND   WORKS 

from  a  poem  of  Alfred's,  entitled  '  Midnight '  (page 
86),  in  a  somewhat  higher  strain?  — 

'T  is  midnight  o'er  the  dim  mere's  lonely  bosom, 

Dark,  dusky,  windy  midnight :  swift  are  driven 
The  swelling  vapours  onward :  every  blossom 

Bathes  its  bright  petals  in  the  tears  of  heaven. 
Imperfect,  half-seen  objects  meet  the  sight, 

The  other  half  our  fancy  must  portray  ; 
A  wan,  dull,  lengthen' d  sheet  of  swimming  light 

Lies  the  broad  lake  :  the  moon  conceals  her  ray, 
Sketch'd  faintly  by  a  pale  and  lurid  gleam 

Shot  thro'  the  glimmering  clouds  :  the  lovely  planet 
Is  shrouded  in  obscurity  ;  the  scream 

Of  owl  is  silenced ;  and  the  rocks  of  granite 
Rise  tall  and  drearily,  while  damp  and  dank 
Hang  the  thick  willows  on  the  reedy  bank. 
Beneath,  the  gurgling  eddies  slowly  creep, 

Blacken'd  by  foliage  ;  and  the  glutting  wave, 
That  saps  eternally  the  cold  gray  steep. 

Sounds  heavily  within  the  hollow  cave. 

It  is  weak  in  spots  —  the  '  dark,  dusky,'  etc.  —  but, 
for  all  that,  it  has  more  of  promise  in  it  than  the 
other. 

There  is  great  variety  of  metre  and  stanza  in  the 
poems,  but  Alfred  never  writes  in  the  rhymed  heroics 
that  Charles  affects  in  the  above  quotation  and  several 
other  pieces.  Two  of  these  —  '  Sunday  Mobs  '  and 
'Phrenology'  (pages  197,  200)  — are  in  a  humorous 
vein,  which  we  should  hardly  have  looked  for  in  the 
soberer  brother.  The  wit,  however,  is  rather  laboured, 
as  this  from  '  Sunday  Mobs '  may  illustrate  :  — 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  ly 

Tho'  we  at  times  amid  the  mob  may  find 

A  beauteous  face,  with  many  a  charm  combined  ; 

Yet  still  it  wants  the  signature  of  mind. 

On  such  a  face  no  fine  expression  dwells, 

That  eye  no  inborn  dignity  reveals  ; 

Tho'  bright  its  jetty  orb,  as  all  may  see, 

The  glance  is  vacant  — has  no  charms  for  me. 

When  Sunday's  sun  is  sinking  in  the  west, 

Our  streets  all  swarm  with  numbers  gaily  drest ; 

Prankt  out  in  ribbands,  and  in  silks  array'd. 

To  catch  the  eyes  of  passing  sons  of  trade. 

Then  giggling  milliners  swim  pertly  by, 

Obliquely  glancing  with  a  roguish  eye ; 

With  short  and  airy  gait  they  trip  along, 

And  vulgar  volubility  of  tongue  ; 

Their  minds  well  pictured  in  their  every  tread, 

And  that  slight  backward  tossing  of  the  head  : 

But  no  idea,  'faith,  that  harbours  there. 

Is  independent  of  a  stomacher. 

Their  metaphors  from  gowns  and  caps  are  sought, 

And  stays  incorporate  with  every  thought. 

In  '  Phrenology '  we  have  the  allusion  to  the  death 
of  Byron  mentioned  above  :  — 

E'en  now,  when  Harold's  minstrel  left  the  scene, 
Where  such  a  brilliant  meteor  he  had  been. 
Thus  with  the  same  ofificiousness  of  pains. 
Gazettes  announc'd  the  volume  of  his  brains. 

The  poem  *  On  the  Death  of  Lord  Byron,'  also  cred- 
ited to  Charles,  is  one  of  his  best,  though  by  no 
means  up  to  the  average  of  Alfred,  to  whom  the 
critics  have  generally  ascribed  it :  — 

VOL.   I.  —  2 


l8  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 


ON    THE   DEATH    OF   LORD    BYRON. 

Unus  tanta  dedit  ?  —  dedit  et  majora  daturus 
Ni  ccleri  letho  corriperetur,  erat. 

Don  Manuel  de  Souza  Coutino's 
Epitaph  on  Cantoens. 


The  hero  and  the  bard  is  gone  !  i 

His  bright  career  on  earth  is  done, 
Where  with  a  comet's  blaze  he  shone. 


He  died  —  where  vengeance  arms  the  brave, 
Where  buried  freedom  quits  her  grave, 
In  regions  of  the  eastern  wave. 

Yet  not  before  his  ardent  lay 
Had  bid  them  chase  all  fear  away, 
And  taught  their  trumps  a  bolder  bray. 

Thro'  him  their  ancient  valour  glows, 
And,  stung  by  thraldom's  scathing  woes, 
They  rise  again,  as  once  they  rose. 

As  once  in  conscious  glory  bold, 

To  war  their  sounding  cars  they  roll'd, 

Uncrush'd,  untrampled,  uncontroll'd  ! 

Each  drop  that  gushes  from  their  side 

Will  serve  to  swell  the  crimson  tide, 

That  soon  shall  whelm  the  Moslem's  pride  ! 

At  last  upon  their  lords  they  turn, 
At  last  the  shame  of  bondage  learn, 
At  last  they  feel  their  fetters  burn  ! 

Oh  !  how  the  heart  expands  to  see 

An  injured  people  all  agree 

To  burst  those  fetters  and  be  free ! 


i 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON:  19 

Each  far-famed  mount  that  cleaves  the  skies, 
Each  plain  wliere  buried  glory  lies, 
All,  all  exclaim  —  'Awake  !  arise  ! ' 

Who  would  not  feel  their  wrongs  ?  and  who 
Departed  freedom  would  not  rue, 
With  all  her  trophies  in  his  view  ? 

To  see  imperial  Athens  reign, 
And,  towering  o'er  the  vassal  main, 
Rise  in  embattled  strength  again  — 

To  see  rough  Sparta  train  once  more 
Her  infants'  ears  for  battle's  roar. 
Stern,  dreadful,  chainless,  as  before  — 

Was  Byron's  hope  —  was  Byron's  aim  : 
With  ready  heart  and  hand  he  came. 
But  perish'd  in  that  path  of  fame  ! 


The  following  '  On  a  Dead  Enemy '  (page  1 60 ) , 
which  I  have  always  assumed  to  be  Alfred's  and  now 
find  with  the  '  A.  T.'  appended,  is  a  remarkable  pro- 
duction for  a  boy  of  seventeen  or  less  :  — 

I  came  in  haste  with  cursing  breath. 

And  heat  of  hardest  steel ; 
But  when  I  saw  thee  cold  in  death 

I  felt  as  man  should  feel. 

For  when  I  look  upon  that  face. 
That  cold,  unheeding,  frigid  brow, 

Where  neither  rage  nor  fear  has  place, 
By  Heaven  !  I  cannot  hate  thee  now ! 


20  THE   LIFE  AND    WORKS 

The  poem  on  *  Egypt '  is  said  to  have  been  '  begun 
by  C.  T.  and  finished  by  A.  T.'  It  is  easy  to  see 
that  the  first  three  stanzas,  beginning 

The  sombre  pencil  of  the  dim-gray  dawn 
Draws  a  faint  sketch  of  Egypt  to  mine  eye, 

As  yet  uncolour'd  by  the  brilHant  morn, 
And  her  gay  orb  careering  up  the  sky, 

are  Charles's,  while  the  other  four  are  Alfred's,  be- 
ginning thus : — 

But  the  first  glitter  of  his  rising  beam 

Falls  on  the  broad-based pyratnids  sublime. 

As  proud  to  show  us  with  his  earliest  gleam 
Those  vast  and  hoary  enemies  of  time. 

'Antony  to  Cleopatra,'  by  Alfred  and  one  of  the 
best  things  in  the  volume,  is  well  worth  reproducing 
here,  that  the  reader  may  compare  it  with  the  Cleo- 
patra stanzas  in  '  A  Dream  of  Fair  Women ' :  — 

ANTONY   TO    CLEOPATRA. 

O  Cleopatra  !  fare  thee  well, 

We  two  can  meet  no  more  ; 
This  breaking  heart  alone  can  tell 

The  love  to  thee  I  bore. 
But  wear  not  thou  the  conqueror's  chain 

Upon  thy  race  and  thee ; 
And  tho'  we  ne'er  can  meet  again. 

Yet  still  be  true  to  me : 
For  I  for  thee  have  lost  a  throne. 
To  wear  the  crown  of  love  alone. 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  2 1 

Fair  daughter  of  a  regal  line ! 

To  thraldom  bow  not  tame  ; 
My  every  wish  on  earth  was  thine, 

My  every  hope  the  same. 
And  I  have  moved  within  thy  sphere, 

And  lived  within  thy  light ; 
And  oh  !  thou  wert  to  me  so  dear, 

I  breathed  but  in  thy  sight ! 
A  subject  world  I  lost  for  thee, 
For  thou  wert  all  my  world  to  me  ! 

Then,  when  the  shriekings  of  the  dying 

Were  heard  along  the  wave, 
Soul  of  my  soul !  I  saw  thee  flying  ; 

I  follow'd  thee,  to  save. 
The  thunder  of  the  brazen  prows 

O'er  Actium's  ocean  rung ; 
Fame's  garland  faded  from  my  brows, 

Her  wreath  away  I  flung. 
I  sought,  I  saw,  I  heard  but  thee ; 
For  what  to  love  was  victory  ? 

Thine  on  the  earth,  and  on  the  throne, 

And  in  the  grave,  am  I  ; 
And,  dying,  still  I  am  thine  own, 

Thy  bleeding  Antony. 
How  shall  my  spirit  joy  to  hear 

That  thou  art  ever  true  ! 
Nay  —  weep  not  —  dry  that  burning  tear, 

That  bathes  thine  eyes'  dark  hue. 
Shades  of  my  fathers  !  lo  !  I  come  • 
I  hear  your  voices  from  the  tomb  ! 


22  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

*  The  Old  Sword,'  which  was  generally  ascribed  to 
Alfred  before  it  was  known  to  be  his,  is  another  good 
specimen  of  his  juvenile  work  :  — 

THE    OLD    SWORD. 

Old  Sword  !  tho'  dim  and  rusted 

Be  now  thy  sheeny  blade, 
Thy  glitt'ring  edge  incrusted 
With  cankers  Time  hath  made  ; 

Yet  once  around  thee  swell'd  the  cry 

Of  triumph's  fierce  dehght, 

The  shoutings  of  the  victory, 

The  thunders  of  the  fight ! 

Tho'  age  hath  past  upon  thee 
With  still  corroding  breath, 
Yet  once  stream'd  redly  on  thee 
The  purpling  tide  of  death  : 

What  time  amid  the  war  of  foes 
The  dastard's  cheek  grew  pale, 
As  thro'  the  feudal  field  arose 
The  ringing  of  the  mail. 

Old  Sword  !  what  arm  hath  wielded 

Thy  richly  gleaming  brand. 

Mid  lordly  forms  who  shielded 

The  maidens  of  their  land  ? 

And  who  hath  clov'n  his  foes  in  wrath 

With  thy  puissant  fire, 
And  scatter'd  in  his  perilous  path 
The  victims  of  his  ire  ? 

Old  Sword  !  whose  fingers  clasp'd  thee 
Around  thy  carved  hilt  .■* 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  23 

And  with  that  hand  which  grasp'd  thee 
What  heroes'  blood  was  spilt ; 

When  fearlessly,  with  open  hearts, 

And  lance  to  lance  opposed, 
Beneath  the  shade  of  barbed  darts 
The  dark-eyed  warriors  closed  ? 

Old  Sword  !  I  would  not  burnish 

Thy  venerable  rust, 
Nor  sweep  away  the  tarnish 
Of  darkness  and  of  dust ! 

Lie  there,  in  slow  and  still  decay, 

Unfamed  in  olden  rhyme, 
The  relic  of  a  former  day, 
A  wreck  of  ancient  time  ! 

Alfred's  poem  entitled  '  Love  '  contains  an  allusion, 
to  which  there  is  a  parallel  in  '  The  Palace  of  Art,'  but 
to  which  none  of  the  commentators  have  called  atten- 
tion.    The  passage  is  as  follows :  — 

Or  else,  as  Indian  fables  say, 

Upon  thine  emerald  lory  riding. 
Thro'  gardens  mid  the  restless  play 

Of  fountains  in  the  moonbeam  gliding, 
Mid  sylph-like  shapes  of  maidens  dancing, 
Thy  scarlet  standard  high  advancing  ;  — 

Thy  fragrant  bow  of  cane  thou  bendest,^ 
Twanging  the  string  of  honey'd  bees, 

*  See  Sir  William  Jones's  works,  vol.  vi.,  p.  313  :  — 

He  bends  the  luscious  cane,  and  twists  the  string; 
With  bees  how  sweet,  but  ah  !  how  keen  the  sting  I 
He  with  five  flowrets  tips  thy  ruthless  darts, 
Which  thro'  five  senses  pierce  enraptured  hearts 


24 


THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

And  thence  the  flower- tipp'd  arrow  sendest, 

Which  gives  or  robs  the  heart  of  ease ; 
Camdeo,  or  Cupid,  oh  be  near 
To  listen,  and  to  grant  my  prayer ! 

Compare  '  The  Palace  of  Art ' :  — 

Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail'd, 

And  many  a  tract  of  palm  and  rice. 
The  throne  of  Indian  Cama^  slowly  sail'd 
A  summer  fann'd  with  spice. 

These  opening  lines  of  'The  Dell  of  E 


mind  me  of  the  beginning  of  '  CEnone,'  though  they 
are  not  among  the  *  parallelisms  '  cited  by  former 
editors :  — 

There  was  a  long,  low,  rushy  dell,  emboss'd 

With  knolls  of  grass  and  clumps  of  copsewood  green ; 
Midway  a  wandering  burn  the  valley  cross'd, 

And  streak'd  with  silvery  line  the  woodland  scene ; 
High  hills  on  either  side  to  heaven  upsprung, 

Y-clad  with  groves  of  undulating  pine. 
Upon  whose  heads  the  hoary  vapours  hung, 

And  far  —  far  off  the  heights  were  seen  to  shine 
In  clear  relief  against  the  sapphire  sky. 

And  many  a  blue  stream  wander'd  thro'  the  shade 

1  Cama  or  Camdeo  is  the  Hindoo  god  of  love,  sometimes 
represented  as  riding  by  night  on  a  parrot,  or  lory.  Compare 
Sir  William  Jones's  Hymn  to  Camdeo :  — 

O  thou  for  ages  born,  yet  ever  young, 
For  ages  may  thy  Brahmin's  lay  be  sung  ! 
And  when  thy  lory  spreads  his  emerald  wings 
To  waft  thee  high  above  the  towers  of  kings, 
Whilst  o'er  thy  throne  the  moon's  pale  light 
Pours  her  soft  radiance  thro'  the  night,  etc.  —  Ed. 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  25 

Of  those  dark  groves  that  clomb  the  mountains  high, 

And  ghstening  'neath  each  lone  entangled  glade, 
At  length  with  brawling  accent  loudly  fell 
Within  the  limpid  brook  that  wound  along  the  dell. 

Certain  critics  have  compared  these  juvenile  poems 
to  the  first  efforts  of  Byron,  and  those  by  Charles  are 
possibly  not  above  the  average  quality  of  the  '  Hours 
of  Idleness  ;  '  but  the  majority  of  those  which  we  can 
now  confidently  ascribe  to  Alfred  seem  to  me  im- 
measurably superior  to  the  best  things  in  that  book, 
published  when  the  author  was  nineteen.  There  is 
scarcely  a  stanza  in  the  latter  which  gives  any  indica- 
tion of  budding  genius,  while  not  a  few  of  the  boyish 
poems  of  Alfred  Tennyson  really  show  the  '  promise 
and  potency '  of  greater  work  to  come. 

The  only  contemporary  criticism  of  the  *  Poems  by 
Two  Brothers '  which  the  commentators  have  un- 
earthed is  in  'The  Literary  Chronicle'  of  INIay  19, 
1827.  The  reviewer  says:  'This  little  volume  ex- 
hibits a  pleasing  union  of  kindred  tastes,  and  contains 
several  little  pieces  of  considerable  merit.'  Two  of 
the  poems  are  given  in  full  as  samples  of  the  whole 
■ —  the  stanzas  beginning  '  Yon  star  of  eve,  so  soft 
and  clear,'  by  Charles  and  not  one  of  his  best,  but 
perhaps  taken  because  it  is  the  first  piece  in  the  book  ; 
and  'God's  Denunciations  against  Pharaoh-Hophra,' 
which  is  only  an  average  specimen  of  Alfred's  contri- 
butions to  the  volume. 


26  THE  LIFE  AND   WORKS 

The  four  '  Additional  Poems  '  in  the  reprint,  omit- 
ted in  the  1827  edition,  are  all  ascribed  to  'A.  T.,' 
but  I  suspect  that  the  second,  '  The  Dying  Man  to  his 
Friend,'  belongs  to  Charles.  It  is  inferior  to  the 
others,  and  has  the  pious  turn  to  which  I  have  re- 
ferred as  characteristic  of  many  pieces  assigned  to 
him.     The  last  stanza  is  as  follows :  — 

Other  worlds  are  opening  on  me, 
Now  my  course  on  earth  is  done ; 

Holy  Jesus  !  look  upon  me, 
Holy  Father,  take  Thy  son. 

The  whole  poem  is  equally  commonplace,  and  I  find 
nothing  clearly  belonging  to  Alfred  which  is  so  poor 
throughout.  The  third  of  the  appended  poems, 
*  Unhappy  man,  why  wander  there  ? '  though  some- 
what better  than  the  second,  may  also  be  Charles's ; 
but  the  fourth,  the  spirited  lines  '  Written  during  the 
Convulsions  in  Spain,'  is  correctly  signed  *  A.  T.' 

In  October,  1828,  Alfred  went  to  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  where  his  two  elder  brothers,  Frederick 
and  Charles,  were  already  residing.  He  remained 
through  the  academic  year,  1829-30,  and  for  the  first 
term  of  the  next,  leaving  college  in  the  latter  part  of 
February,  1831.  'This  premature  departure  from 
the  university,  which,  it  will  be  seen,  he  left  without 
graduating,  was  due  to  his  father's  death,' 

The  tutor  to  whom  Alfred  was  assigned,  according 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  27 

to  the  custom  of  the  college,  was  William  Whewell, 
then  recently  elected  Professor  of  Mineralogy,  and 
afterwards  Master  of  the  College.  Mrs.  Ritchie  says 
of  him  and  his  students  at  this  time  :  — 

Whewell  ruled  a  noble  generation,  —  a  race  of  men  born 
in  the  beginning  of  the  century,  whose  praise  and  loyal 
friendship  were  indeed  worth  having,  and  whose  good 
opinion  Tennyson  himself  may  have  been  proud  to  pos- 
sess. Wise,  sincere,  and  witty,  these  contemporaries  of 
his  spoke  with  authority,  with  the  modesty  of  conscious 
strength.  Those  of  this  race  whom  I  have  known  in  later 
days  —  for  they  were  many  of  them  my  father's  friends 
also  —  have  all  been  men  of  unmistakable  stamp,  of  great 
culture,  of  a  certain  dignified  bearing,  and  of  indepen- 
dence of  mind  and  of  character. 

Most  of  them  have  succeeded  in  life  as  men  do  who  are 
possessed  of  intellect  and  high  character.  Some  have  not 
made  the  less  mark  upon  their  time  because  their  names 
are  less  widely  known ;  but  each  name  is  a  memorable 
chapter  in  life  to  one  and  another  of  us  who  have  known 
them  from  our  youth.  One  of  those  old  friends,  who  also 
loved  my  father,  and  whom  he  loved,  who  has  himself  just 
passed  away,  one  who  saw  life  with  his  own  eyes,  de- 
scribed Alfred  in  his  youth,  in  a  pamphlet  or  book  which 
has  been  privately  printed,  and  which  is  a  remembrance, 
a  sort  of  waking  dream,  of  some  bygone  days  and  talks. 
How  many  of  us  might  have  been  glad  to  listen  to  our 
poet,  and  to  the  poet  who  has  made  the  philosophy  of 
Omar  Khayam  known  to  the  world,  as  they  discoursed  to- 
gether ;  of  life,  of  bo3'ish  memories,  of  books,  and  again 
more  books,  of  chivalry,  —  mainly  but  another  name  for 
youth,  —  of  a  possible  old  age,  so  thoroughly  seasoned 
with  its  spirit  that  all  the  experience  of  the  world  should 
serve  not  to  freeze  but  to  direct  the  genial  current  of  the 


28  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

soul !  and  who  that  has  known  them  both  will  not  recog- 
nise the  truth  of  this  description  of  Alfred  in  those  early 
days  ?  — 

A  man  at  all  points,  of  grand  proportion  and  feature,  sig- 
nificant of  that  inward  chivalry  becoming  his  ancient  and 
honourable  race  ;  when  himself  a  '  Yonge  Squire,'  like  him  in 
Chaucer,  '  of  grete  strength,'  that  could  hurl  the  crowbar  far- 
ther than  any  of  the  neighbouring  clowns,  whose  humours,  as 
well  as  of  their  betters,  —  knight,  squire,  landlord,  and  lieuten- 
ant, —  he  took  quiet  note  of,  like  Chaucer  himself ;  like  Words- 
worth on  the  mountain,  he  too  when  a  lad  abroad  on  the  world, 
sometimes  of  a  night  with  the  shepherd,  watching  not  only  the 
flock  on  the  greensward,  but  also 

the  fleecy  star  that  bears 
Andromeda  far  off  Atlantic  seas, 

along  with  those  other  Zodiacal  constellations  which  Aries,  I 
think,  leads  over  the  field  of  heaven. 

Arthur  Hallam  has  also  written  of  him,  in  some  lines  to 
R.  J.  Tennant,  as 

a  friend,  a  rare  one, 
A  noble  being  full  of  clearest  insight, 

.  .  .  whose  fame 
Is  couching  now  with  pantherised  intent. 
As  who  shall  say,  I  '11  spring  to  him  anon. 
And  have  him  for  my  own. 

All  these  men  could  understand  each  other,  although 
they  had  not  then  told  the  world  their  secrets.  Poets, 
critics,  men  of  learning  —  such  names  as  Trench  and 
Monckton  Milnes,  George  Stovin  Venables,  the  Lush- 
ingtons  and  Kinglake,  need  no  comment;  many  more 
there  are,  and  deans  and  canons,  —  a  band  of  youthful 
friends  in  those  days  meeting  to  hold  debate 

on  mind  and  art, 
And  labour  and  the  changing  mart. 
And  all  the  framework  of  the  land ; 


OF  LORD    TEAWYSON.  29 

When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair, 
But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string ; 
And  one  would  pierce  an  outer  ring, 

And  one  an  inner,  here  and  there ; 

And  last  the  master-bowman,  he. 
Would  cleave  the  mark. 

The  lines  to  J.  S.  were  written  to  one  of  these  earlier 
associates : — 

And  gently  comes  the  world  to  those 
That  are  cast  in  gentle  mould. 

It  was  the  prophecy  of  a  whole  lifetime.  There  were  but 
few  signs  of  age  in  James  Spedding's  looks,  none  in  his 
charming  companionship,  when  the  accident  befell  him 
which  took  him  away  from  those  who  loved  him.  To  an- 
other old  companion,  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Brookfield,  is  dedi- 
cated that  sonnet  which  flows  like  an  echo  of  Cambridge 
chimes  on  a  Sabbath  morning.  It  is  in  this  sonnet  that 
Tennyson  speaks  of  Arthur  Hallam  as  '  him  the  lost  light 
of  those  dawn-golden  times.' 

Brookfield  was  for  many  years  a  preacher  in  Lon- 
don, but  later  went  to  a  country  parish  in  Lincolnshire. 
During  his  Cambridge  life,  he  was  noted  for  his 
humour  and  his  power  of  mimicry.  Dr.  Whewell 
wrote  long  afterwards  :  — 

At  my  age  it  is  not  likely  that  I  shall  ever  again  see  a 
whole  party  lying  on  the  floor  for  purposes  of  unrestrained 
laughter,  while  one  of  their  number  is  pouring  forth,  with 
a  perfectly  grave  face,  a  succession  of  imaginary  dialogues 
between  characters  real  or  fictitious,  one  exceeding  another 
in  humour  or  drollery.  Brookfield  almost  lived  with  Ar- 
thur Hallam  and  the  Tennysons,  and,  of  course,  with  those 
who  could  afford  time  for  their  nodes  coenceque. 


3©  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

Arthur  Hallam,  to  whom  this  last  sentence  alludes, 
was  the  most  intimate  of  Tennyson's  friends  at  Cam- 
bridge. He  was  two  years  younger  than  Alfred,  but 
entered  the  university  in  the  same  year.  He  died  at 
the  early  age  of  twenty-three,  and  *  In  Memoriam '  is 
the  noble  monument  the  poet  has  reared  to  his  mem- 
ory.^ In  the  preface  to  a  little  volume  of  his  collected 
poems  and  essays,  published  after  his  death,  his 
father,  the  eminent  historian,  says  of  him  :  — 

From  the  earlier  years  of  this  extraordinary  young  man, 
his  premature  abilities  are  not  more  conspicuous  than  an 
almost  faultless  disposition  sustained  by  a  more  calm  self- 
command  than  has  often  been  witnessed  in  this  season  of 
life.  The  sweetness  of  temper  which  distinguished  his 
childhood  became  with  the  advance  of  manhood  a  habit- 
ual benevolence,  and  ultimately  ripened  into  that  exalted 
principle  of  benevolence  towards  God  and  man  which  ani- 
mated and  almost  absorbed  his  soul  during  the  latter 
period  of  his  life.  .  .  .  He  seemed  to  tread  the  earth  as 
a  spirit  from  some  better  world ;  and  in  bowing  to  the 
mysterious  WiU  which  has  in  mercy  removed  him.,  per- 
fected by  so  short  a  trial,  and  passing  over  the  bridge 
which  separates  the  seen  from  the  unseen  life  in  a 
moment,  and  as  we  may  believe  without  a  moment's 
pang,  we  must  feel  not  only  the  bereavement  of  them  to 
whom  he  was  dear,  but  the  loss  which  mankind  have  sus- 
tained by  the  withdrawing  of  such  a  hght. 

Rev.  Henry  Alford,  the  late  Dean  of  Canterbury,  an 

intimate  friend,  thus  addresses  him  in  '  The  School  of 

the  Heart '  :  — 

^  In  the  notes  to  that  poem  in  the  present  edition  I  shall 
have  occasion  to  refer  to  him  more  at  length. 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  3 1 

Gentle  soul 
That  ever  moved  among  us  in  a  veil 
Of  heavenly  lustre ;  in  whose  presence  thoughts 
Of  common  import  shone  with  light  divine, 
Whence  we  drew  sweetness  as  from  out  a  well 
Of  honey  pure  and  deep,  thine  early  form 
Was  not  the  investiture  of  daily  men, 
But  thou  didst  wear  a  glory  in  thy  look 
From  inward  converse  with  the  spirit  of  love ; 
And  thou  hadst  won  in  the  first  strife  of  youth 
Trophies  that  gladden'd  hope,  and  pointed  on 
To  days  when  we  should  stand  and  minister 
To  the  full  triumphs  of  thy  gather'd  strength. 

Mr.  W.  E.  Gladstone  says  :  — 

The  memory  of  Arthur  Henry  Hallam,  who  died  sud- 
denly in  1833,  at  the  age  of  twenty -two,  will  doubtless  live 
chiefly  in  connection  with  this  volume  ['  In  Memoriam  ']. 
But  he  is  well  known  to  have  been  one  who,  if  the  term  of 
his  days  had  been  prolonged,  would  have  needed  no  aid 
from  a  friendly  hand,  would  have  built  his  own  enduring 
monument,  and  would  have  bequeathed  to  his  country  a 
name  in  all  likelihood  greater  than  that  of  his  very 
distinguished  father.  The  writer  of  this  paper  was  more 
than  half  a  century  ago  in  a  condition  to  say,  — 

I  mark'd  him 
As  a  far  Alp  ;  and  loved  to  watch  the  sunrise 
Dawn  on  his  ample  brow. 
There  perhaps   was   no  one   among  those   who  were 
blessed  with  his  friendship  —  nay,  as  we  see,  not  even  Mr. 
Tennyson  —  who  did  not  feel  at  once  bound  closely  to 
him  by  commanding  affection,  and  left  far  behmd  by  the 
rapid  growth  and  rich  development  of  his  ever-searching 
mind;  by  his 

All-comprehensive  tenderness, 
All-subtilising  intellect. 


32  THE   LIFE   AND    WORKS 

It  would  be  easy  to  show  what,  in  the  varied  forms  of 
human  excellence,  he  might,  had  Hfe  been  granted  him, 
have  accomplished;  much  more  difficult  to  point  the 
finger  and  to  say,  '  This  he  never  could  have  done.' 
Enough  remains  from  among  his  early  efforts  to  accredit 
whatever  mournful  witness  may  now  be  borne  of  him. 
But  what  can  be  a  nobler  tribute  than  this,  that  for 
seventeen  years  after  his  death,  a  poet,  fast  rising  towards 
the  lofty  summit  of  his  art,  found  that  young  fading 
image  the  richest  source  of  his  inspiration,  and  of  thoughts 
that  gave  him  buoyancy  for  a  flight  such  as  he  had  not 
hitherto  attained.'' 

Richard  Monckton  Milnes  (Lord  Houghton),  in  a 
small  volume  of  poems  published  a  few  months  after 
Arthur  Hallam's  death,  has  a  dedication  to  Henry 
Hallam,  in  which  he  pays  the  following  tribute  to 
Arthur's  memory :  — 

If  I  have  ever  entertained  pleasurable  anticipations 
connected  with  the  publication  of  any  production  of  my 
mind,  they  have  owed  not  a  little  to  the  thought  that  I 
should  thus  be  enabled  to  give,  in  my  humble  way,  an 
open  testimony  to  the  affectionate  admiration  with  which  I 
regarded  one  whom  I  loved  with  the  truth  of  early  friend- 
ship, and  you  with  a  parent's  passion.  It  has  pleased 
that  high  Will  to  which  we  must  submit  everything,  even 
our  loves,  to  take  him  away,  in  whom  the  world  has  lost 
so  much,  and  they  who  knew  him  so  much  more.  We  are 
deprived  not  only  of  a  beloved  friend,  of  a  delightful 
companion,  but  of  a  most  wise  and  influential  counsellor 
in  all  the  serious  concerns  of  existence,  of  an  incompar- 
able critic  in  all  our  literary  efforts,  and  of  the  example  of 
one  who  was  as  much  before  us  in  everything  else  as  he 
is  now  in  the  way  of  life. 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  H 

I  hold  his  kind  words  and  earnest  admonitions  in  the 
best  part  of  my  heart,  I  have  his  noble  and  tender  letters 
by  my  side,  and  I  feel  secure  from  any  charge  of  pre- 
sumption in  thus  addressing  you  under  the  shield  of  his 
sacred  memory. 

A  lady,  speaking  of  young  Hallam  after  his  death, 
said  to  Tennyson,  '  I  think  he  was  perfect.'  '  And  so 
he  was,'  the  poet  replied,  *  as  near  perfection  as  a 
mortal  man  can  be.' 

In  the  summer  of  1829  Tennyson  gained  the 
Chancellor's  gold  medal  at  Cambridge  for  a  poem 
on  Timbuctoo.  His  friend  Hallam  was  also  a 
competitor  for  the  prize.     Mr.  Church  says :  — 

The  poet  tells  a  curious  story  of  the  way  in  which 
this  English  verse  prize  came  to  be  won.  His  father 
imagined,  not,  it  may  be,  wholly  without  reason,  that  his 
son  was  doing  very  little  at  the  university,  and  knowing 
that  he  had  a  certain  gift  for  writing  verse,  told  him  that 
he  ought  to  compete  for  the  Chancellor's  medal.  Alfred 
Tennyson  had  composed,  two  years  before,  a  poem  on 
'  The  Battle  of  Armageddon.'  This  he  took,  furnished  it 
with  anew  beginning  and  a  new  end,  and  sent  it  in  for  the 
theme  of  '  Timbuctoo.' 

The  same  writer  gives  the  following  sketch  of  the 
poem  :  — 

The  central  idea  may  be  said  to  be  the  relation  of 
Fable  and  Truth.     The  poet,  standing  on 

the  mountain  which  o'erlooks 
The  narrow  sea  whose  rapid  interval 
Parts  Afric  from  green  Europe, 
VOL.  I. —3 


34  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

muses  on  the  great  legends  of  the  past,  such  as  were 
those  that  had  pictured  Atlantis  and  'Imperial  Eldorado 
roof'd  with  gold,'  and  asks, — 

Wide  Afric,  doth  thy  Sun 
Lighten,  thy  hills  enfold,  a  city  as  fair 
As  those  which  starr'd  the  night  o'  the  elder  world  ? 

He  is  answered  by  a  Spirit  who  opens  the  eyes  of  his 

soul  till 

each  failing  sense, 
As  with  a  momentary  flash  of  light, 
Grew  thrillingly  distinct  and  keen. 

♦  I  saw,'  he  goes  on, 

The  smallest  grain  that  dappled  the  dark  earth, 

The  indistinctest  atom  in  deep  air, 

The  moon's  white  cities,  and  the  opal  width 

Of  her  small  glowing  lakes,  her  silver  heights 

Unvisited  with  dew  of  vagrant  cloud, 

And  the  unsounded,  undescended  depth 

Of  her  black  billows. 

Among  the  glories  thus  revealed  to  him  is  the  sight  of 
the  great  African  city  :  — 

Then  first  within  the  South  methought  I  saw 

A  wilderness  of  spires,  and  crystal  pile 

Of  rampart  upon  rampart,  dome  on  dome. 

Illimitable  range  of  battlement 

On  battlement,  and  the  Imperial  height 

Of  canopy  o'ercanopied. 

Finally  the  spirit  explains  the  secret  of  his  being :  — 

I  am  the  Spirit, 
The  permeating  life  which  courseth  through 
All  th'  intricate  and  labyrinthine  veins 
Of  the  great  vine  of  Fable,  which,  outspread 
With  growth  of  shadowing  leaf  and  clusters  rare, 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  35 

Reacheth  to  every  corner  under  heaven, 
Deep-rooted  in  the  living  soil  of  truth. 

But   the   time  was  near  when   this    the    Spirit's   latest 
throne  would  have  to  be  yielded  up  to  '  keen  Discovery  ' : 

Soon  yon  brilliant  towers 
Shall  darken  with  the  waving  of  her  wand  ; 
Darken  and  shrink  and  shiver  into  huts, 
Black  specks  amid  a  waste  of  dreary  sand, 
Low-built,  mud-wall'd,  barbarian  settlements. 

It  was  the  first  time  the  prize  had  been  awarded  to 
a  poem  in  blank  verse,  all  precedents  requiring  that  it 
should  be  in  the  orthodox  heroic  couplet.  '  Against 
blank  verse,  in  particular,  so  easy  to  write  badly,  so 
difficult  to  write  well,  there  was  a  strong  and  not  ill- 
founded  prejudice ;  and  it  says  much  for  the  vigour 
and  originality  of  the  poem,  and,  it  is  only  fair  to 
add,  for  the  liberal  and  open-minded  temper  of  the 
examiners,  that  the  metre  was  not  considered  a 
disqualification.' 

'Timbuctoo'  was  noticed  in  the  'Athenaeum'  by 
John  Sterling,  who  said  of  it :  — 

We  have  accustomed  ourselves  to  think,  perhaps  with- 
out any  very  good  reason,  that  poetry  was  likely  to  perish 
among  us  for  a  very  considerable  period  after  the  great 
generation  of  poets  which  is  now  passing  away.  The  age 
seems  determined  to  contradict  us,  and  that  in  the  most 
decided  manner,  for  it  has  put  forth  poetry  by  a  young 
man,  and  that  where  we  should  least  expect  it  —  in  a  prize 
poem.  These  productions  have  often  been  ingenious  and 
elegant,  but  we  have  never  before  seen  one  which  indicated 


36  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

really  first-rate  poetic  genius,  and  which  would  have  done 
honour  to  any  man  that  ever  wrote.  Such  we  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  affirm  is  the  little  work  before  us,  and  the  exam- 
iners seem  to  have  felt  about  it  like  ourselves,  for  they 
have  assigned  the  prize  to  its  author,  although  the  measure 
in  which  he  writes  was  never  before  (we  believe)  thus 
selected  for  honour. 

The  reviewer  goes  on  to  quote  some  forty  lines  of 
the  poem,  and  adds  :  '  How  many  men  have  lived 
for  a  century  that  could  equal  that  ? '  This  is  high 
praise,  and  possibly  may  be  deemed  extravagant ;  but 
the  writer  was  acquainted  with  Tennyson  and  knew 
something  of  his  brilliant  promise  aside  from  what 
was  shown  in  this  poem. 

In  1830  the  first  book  of  poems  to  which  Alfred 
Tennyson  put  his  name  appeared,  with  the  title 
*  Poems,  chiefly  Lyrical.'  It  was  a  volume  of  one 
hundred  and  fifty-four  pages,  and  contained  fifty-six 
pieces.  Thirty-two  ^  of  these  were  suppressed  in  1842, 
but  nine  of  them  have  been  restored  at  intervals  in 
more    recent    editions.      These    are    'The    Deserted 

^  The  number  is  given  as  twenty-seven  by  Church  and  other 
authorities,  who  are  misled  partly  by  the  fact  that  in  the  book 
four  of  the  rejected  pieces  are  grouped  under  the  one  head  of 
'  Sonnets,'  and  partly  because  several  pieces,  omitted  in  1842, 
were  restored  so  soon  afterwards  that  their  brief  suppression 
was  overlooked.  I  may  add  that  others  have  been  restored  in 
editions  printed  very  recently.  The  '  National  Song '  did  not 
reappear  until  its  introduction  with  a  new  '  chorus '  in  '  The 
Foresters'  (1892). 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  37 

House,'  'Nothing  will  Die,'  'All  Things  will  Die,^ 
'  Supposed  Confessions  of  a  Second-rate  Sensitive 
Mind,'  '  Elegiacs  '  (now  entitled  '  Leonine  Elegiacs '), 
*  We  are  Free '  (now  '  A  Song,'  beginning, '  The  winds 
as  at  their  hour  of  birth'),  'The  Sea- Fairies,' ' The 
Kraken,'  and  '  National  Song.'  ^ 

Among  the  contents  of  this  volume  were  '  Mariana,' 
'  Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights,'  '  Ode  to  Mem- 
ory,' and  '  The  Poet.'  This  last-named  poem  is  espe- 
cially noteworthy  as  indicating  the  high  ideal  of  the 
poet's  art  and  vocation  with  which  the  young  singer 
started  on  his  career.  The  poet,  as  he  describes  him, 
is  no  mere  minstrel,  playing  and  singing  to  amuse  the 
crowd,  but  a  power  in  the  world  —  seer,  prophet, 
teacher,  inspirer,  ruler,  king  —  by  a  divine  right  higher 
than  any  hereditary  monarch  can  boast  from  the  acci- 
dent of  birth. 

In  January,  1831,  a  notice  of  the  book'-^  appeared 
in  the  'Westminster  Review.'  The  concluding  sen- 
tences read  now  like    a   prophecy  fulfilled.       After 

1  Among  the  pieces  suppressed  and  never  restored  was 
'  Hero  to  Leander,'  which  is  one  of  the  twenty-two  poems  or 
parts  of  poems  from  Tennyson  included  by  R.  W.  Emerson  in 
his  '  Parnassus,'  published  in  1875. 

2  According  to  Mr.  Church,  this  notice  was  written  by  John 
Stuart  Mill ;  but  it  is  probable  that  he  confounded  it  with  the 
one  from  Mill's  pen  in  the  'Westminster'  for  July,  1835. 
Lord  Tennyson  had  the  impression  that  it  was  written  by  Sir 
John  Bowring. 


38  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

quoting  from  the  piece  just  mentioned  ('The  Poet'), 
the  writer  says  of  the  author  :  — 

He  has  shown,  in  the  lines  from  which  we  quote,  his 
own  just  conception  of  the  grandeur  of  a  poet's  destiny ; 
and  we  look  to  him  for  its  fulfilment.  It  is  not  for  such 
men  to  sink  into  mere  verse-makers  for  the  amusement  of 
themselves  or  others.  They  can  influence  the  associations 
of  unnumbered  minds ;  they  can  command  the  sympa- 
thies of  unnumbered  hearts ;  they  can  disseminate  prin- 
ciples ;  they  can  give  those  principles  power  over  men's 
imaginations ;  they  can  excite  in  a  good  cause  the  sus- 
tained enthusiasm  that  is  sure  to  conquer;  they  can  blast 
the  laurels  of  the  tyrants,  and  hallow  the  memories  of  the 
martyrs  of  patriotism ;  they  can  act  with  a  force,  the  ex- 
tent of  which  it  is  difficult  to  estimate,  upon  national  feel- 
ings and  character,  and  consequently  upon  national  hap- 
piness. If  our  estimate  of  Mr.  Tennyson  is  correct,  he 
too  is  a  poet ;  and  many  years  hence  may  he  ^  read  his 
juvenile  description  of  that  character  with  the  proud  con- 
sciousness that  it  has  become  the  description  and  history 
of  his  own  work. 

More  than  sixty  years  have  passed  since  these  elo- 
quent and  prophetic  words  were  penned ;  and  there 
could  not  be  a  more  truthful  description  and  history 
of  Tennyson's  work  than  those  inspired  strains  of  his 

1  In  the  '  Westminster,'  as  in  all  quotations  of  the  passage 
that  I  have  seen,  'he  '  is  misprinted  'be,'  —  at  least  I  have  no 
doubt  that  the  author  wrote  'he.' 

[Since  writing  this  note  I  see  that  Mr.  Waugh,  in  his  '  Al- 
fred Lord  Tennyson'  (1892),  has  made  the  same  correction.  I 
made  it  first  in  my  '  Young  People's  Tennyson '  (1886),  p.  90.] 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  39 

youth.  The  estimate  of  the  critic  was  correct.  The 
young  singer  was  a  poet,  and  he  proved  himself  such 
a  poet  as  he  saw  in  that  immortal  vision.  It  was 
a  lofty  and  noble  ideal,  but  he  made  it  a  living 
reality. 

Charles  Tennyson's  first  volume,  'Sonnets  and 
Fugitive  Pieces,'  appeared  almost  simultaneously  with 
the  '  Poems,  chiefly  Lyrical ; '  and  the  two  books  were 
reviewed  at  considerable  length  in  'The  Tatler,'  by 
Leigh  Hunt,  who  praised  the  work  of  both  brothers, 
but  gave  the  pre-eminence  to  Alfred. 

A  few  months  later,  a  review  of  Alfred's  book  ap- 
peared in  *  The  Englishman's  Magazine,'  from  the 
pen  of  Arthur  Hallam.  It  is  highly  eulogistic,  but 
critical  withal.  Tennyson  is  declared  to  be  a  true 
poet :  *  His  ear  has  a  fairy  fineness ;  there  is  a  strange 
earnestness  in  his  worship  of  beauty,  which  throws  a 
charm  over  his  impassioned  song  more  easily  felt  than 
described,  and  not  to  be  escaped  by  those  who  have 
once  felt  it.'  Five  distinctive  merits  of  the  poet's 
manner  are  noted  :  ^ first,  his  luxuriance  of  imagi- 
nation, and,  at  the  same  time,  his  control  over  it ; 
second,  his  power  of  embodying  himself  in  ideal  char- 
acters ;  third,  his  vivid,  picturesque  delineation  of 
objects,  and  the  peculiar  skill  with  which  he  holds  all 
of  them  fused  in  a  medium  of  strong  emotion ; 
fourth,  the  variety  of  his  lyrical  measures  and  exqui- 
site modulation  of  words  and  cadences  to  the  swell 


40  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

and  fall  of  the  feelings  expressed ;  and  fifth,  the 
elevated  habits  of  thought  impHed  in  these  composi- 
tions, and  imparting  a  mellow  soberness  of  tone,  more 
impressive  than  if  the  author  had  drawn  up  a  set  of 
opinions  in  verse,  and  sought  to  instruct  the  under- 
standing rather  than  to  communicate  the  love  of  beauty 
to  the  heart.' 

In  May,  1832,  'Christopher  North'  (Prof.  John 
Wilson)  reviewed  the  young  poet's  work  in  *  Black- 
wood '  in  a  very  different  vein,  praising  it  in  some 
respects,  but  showing  up  its  faults  and  defects  with 
merciless  severity.  It  must  be  admitted  that  there 
was  justice  in  many  of  the  strictures,  and  they  may 
have  had  their  influence  in  leading  Tennyson  to  sup- 
press some  pieces  in  later  editions,  the  passages  held 
up  to  ridicule  by  the  reviewer  being  mostly  from  these 
discarded  poems.  Wilson  did  not  spare  the  critics 
who  had  already  passed  judgment  upon  Tennyson. 
The  writer  in  the  *  Westminster '  is  called  '  a  crazy 
charlatan ; '  and  Hallam's  essay  is  declared  to  have 
been  the  death  of  the  short-lived  '  Englishman's  Mag- 
azine.' The  article  'awoke  a  general  guffaw,  and  it 
[the  magazine]  expired  in  convulsions.' 

After  ridiculing  certain  of  the  poems  in  detail  (of 
which  only  'The  Poet's  Mind'  and  'The  Merman' 
appear  in  the  recent  editions)  the  reviewer  selects  for 
praise  certain  others,  among  which  are  the  '  Ode  to 
Memory,'  '  The  Deserted  House/  '  Isabel,'  '  Mariana,' 


Farringford,  Freshwater,  Isle  of  IVight. 
Photogravure  from  photograph. 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  41 

'  Adeline,' '  The  Sleeping  Beauty,'  ^  and  '  Recollections 
of  the  Arabian  Nights.' 

That  Tennyson  was  nettled  by  the  criticism  is  evi- 
dent from  the  little  rhymed  retort  which  he  inserted 
in  his  next  volume,  but  never  afterwards  reprinted  : 

You  did  late  review  my  lays, 

Crusty  Christopher; 
You  did  mingle  blame  and  praise, 

Rusty  Christopher. 
When  I  learnt  from  whom  it  came, 
I  forgave  you  all  the  blame, 

Musty  Christopher; 
I  could  not  forgive  the  praise, 

Fusty  Christopher. 

In  the  same  year  (1830)  Tennyson  contributed 
three  poems  to  'The  Gem,'  an  'annual'  for  1831. 
The  first  is  a  bit  of  seven  lines,  interesting  as  perhaps 
containing  the  germ  of  the  exquisite  song, '  The  Days 
that  are  No  More  '  in  '  The  Princess  ' :  — 

NO   MORE. 

Oh  sad  No  More  !   Oh  sweet  No  More  ! 

Oh  strange  No  More  ! 
By  a  moss'd  brook-bank  on  a  stone 
I  smelt  a  wildwood  flower  alone  ; 
There  was  a  ringing  in  my  ears, 
And  both  my  eyes  gush'd  out  with  tears. 
Surely  all  pleasant  things  had  gone  before, 
Low-buried  fathom  deep  with  thee,  No  More  ! 

1  Only  the  portion  of  '  The  Day-Dream  '  bearing  this  title 
appeared  in  1S30,  the  rest  having  been  added  in  1S42. 


42  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

The  second  is  twelve  lines  long  and  entitled  *  Anac- 
reontics.' These  trifles  in  rhyme  were  evidently  writ- 
ten to  order,  and  the  author  did  not  think  them 
worth  reprinting  in  any  of  his  volumes.  The  third 
piece,  which  he  also  discarded,  is  somewhat  longer 
and  in  blank  verse,  with  the  title,  '  A  Fragment.'  A 
passage  from  it  has  been  quoted  above  (page  i8). 

In  the  same  number  of  *  The  Englishman's  Maga- 
zine '  (August,  1 831)  which  contained  Arthur  Hal- 
lam's  review  of  the  '  Poems,  chiefly  L)-rical,'  there  is  at 
sonnet  by  Tennyson,  beginning,  — 

Check  everj'  outflash,  every  ruder  sally 

Of  thought  and  speech ;  speak  low,  and  give  up  wholly 

Thy  spirit  to  mild-minded  Melancholy. 

This  is  also  among  the  rejected  poems,  but  the 
latter  part  of  these  opening  Hnes  reappears  in  'The 
Lotos- Eaters  ' :  — 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 

To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  Melancholy. 

Another  sonnet,  beginning  'There  are  three  things 
which  fill  my  heart  with  sighs,'  appeared  in  'The 
Yorkshire  Literary  Annual'  for  1832. 

A  third^  contributed  to  '  Friendship's  Offering '  for 
the  same  year,  has  been  reprinted  since  the  poet's 
death,  by  permission  of  his  son,  with  a  few  slight  al- 
terations which  appear  to  have  been  made  by  the 
author  in  a  copy  given  to  a  friend :  — 

Me  mine  own  fate  to  lasting  sorrow  doometh, 
Thy  woes  are  birds  of  passage,  transitory ; 


J 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  43 

Thy  spirit,  circled  with  a  living  glory, 
In  summer  still  a  summer  joy  resumeth. 
Alone  my  hopeless  melancholy  gloometh. 

Like  a  lone  cypress,  through  the  twilight  hoary, 
In  some  old  garden  where  no  flower  bloometh,  — 

One  cypress  on  an  island  promontory. 
And  yet  my  lonely  spirit  follows  thine. 

As  round  the  rolling  earth  night  follows  day ; 
And  yet  thy  lights  on  my  horizon  shine 

Into  my  night,  when  thou  art  far  away. 
I  am  so  dark,  alas !   and  thou  so  bright, 
When  we  two  meet  there  's  never  perfect  light. 

In  the  winter  of  1832-33  a  second  volume  of  'Poems 
by  Alfred  Tennyson '  (that  was  the  title)  was  brought 
out  in  London  by  Edward  Moxon,  who  continued  for 
many  years  to  be  the  author's  publisher.  It  contained 
thirty  pieces,  fourteen  of  which  were  discarded  in 
1842,  though  the  following  six  have  since  been  re- 
stored :  '  To ,'  beginning,  in  its  revised  form,  '  My 

life  is  full  of  weary  days '  (see  notes  on  that  poem)  ; 
*  Buonaparte  ; '  the  sonnet,  '  If  I  were  loved  as  I  de- 
sire to  be ; '  '  Rosalind,' '  Poland  '  (<  How  long,  O  God,' 
etc.),  and  the  sonnet,  'As  when  with  downcast  eyes 
we  muse  and  brood.'  ^ 

This  volume  was  contemptuously  reviewed  (by  the 
editor,  John  Gibson  Lockhart,  it  is  generally  believed) 

1  On  the  number  of  suppressed  and  of  subsequently  re- 
stored poems  in  this  volume,  as  concerning  that  of  1S30,  all 
the  authorities  are  inaccurate.  Compare  the  foot-note  on 
page  36. 


44  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

in  the  'Quarterly'  for  July,  1833.  Samuel  Taylor 
Coleridge,  while  admitting  that  there  was  *a  good 
deal  of  beauty '  in  the  book,  added :  '  The  misfor- 
tune is  that  he  [Tennyson]  has  begun  to  write  verses 
without  very  well  understanding  what  metre  is.'  Mr. 
Church,  quoting  this,  remarks  :  *  The  fact  was  that 
he  had  had  much  practice  in  writing  in  the  accepted 
metres,  and  that  his  father  had  even  advised  him  not 
to  be  so  regular  in  his  rhythms.'  Later  (in  1844) 
Edgar  A,  Poe  wrote :  '  Tennyson's  shorter  pieces 
abound  in  minute  rhythmical  lapses  —  sufficient  to 
assure  me  that,  in  common  with  all  poets,  living  and 
dead,  he  has  neglected  to  make  precise  investigation 
of  the  principles  of  metre ;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
so  perfect  is  his  rhythmical  instinct  in  general  that  he 
seems  to  see  with  his  earJ  Poe,  like  Coleridge, 
plumed  himself  upon  his  mastery  of '  the  principles  of 
metre,'  and  was  a  precisian  in  their  application.  Pos- 
sibly the  '  minute  lapses '  he  fancies  that  he  detects 
in  Tennyson's  verse  were  due  to  the  *  rhythmical  in- 
stinct '  which  taught  that  poet  how  to  attain  a  finer 
music  by  occasional  variations  from  the  strict  letter  ot 
the  technical  law.  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  poet 
as  well  as  critic,  in  his  'Victorian  Poets,'  commenting 
on  this  same  volume  of  1832  (or  of  1833,  as  it  is  often 
called),  notes  in  it  '  the  command  of  delicious  metres, 
the  rhythmic  susurrus  of  stanzas  whose  every  word  is 
as  needful  and  studied  as  the  flower  or  scroll  of  orna- 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  45 

mental  architecture,  —  yet  so  much  an  interlaced  por- 
tion of  the  whole  that  the  special  device  is  forgotten 
in  the  general  excellence.'  He  adds :  '  Even  if 
these  lyrics  and  idyls  had  expressed  nothing,  they 
were  of  priceless  value  as  guides  to  the  renaissance  of 
beauty.  Thenceforward  slovenly  work  was  impossible, 
subject  to  instant  rebuke  by  contrast.  The  force  of 
metrical  elegance  made  its  way,  and  carried  every- 
thing before  it.' 

Certain  poems  first  printed  in  1842  belong  to  this 
period  in  the  poet's  career.  In  a  note  to  the  first 
volume  of  the  edition  published  in  that  year,  we  are 
told  that  the  following,  '  with  one  exception,  were 
written  in  1833  ' :  •'  Lady  Clare  Vere  de  Vere  ; '  the 
'Conclusion'  of  'The  May  Queen;'  'The  Black- 
bird ; '  '  You  ask  me  why,  though  ill  at  ease ; '  '  Of 
old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights ;  '  '  Love  thou  thy 
land ; '  and  '  The  Goose.'  '  The  Two  Voices  '  is 
also  dated  1833. 

'The  Lover's  Tale  '  (written  in  1828)  was  printed 
in  1833,  b^^  withdrawn  before  publication  for  reasons 
which  the  author  gives  in  the  preface  to  the  reprint 
of  1879. 

During  the  next  nine  years  (1833-42)  the  poet 
was  silent,  except  for  the  contribution  of  '  Saint  Agnes  ' 
to  'The  Keepsake'  in  1837,  and  some  'Stanzas'  to 
'  The  Tribute  '  (a  collection  of  miscellaneous  poems 
by  various  authors,  edited  by  Lord  Northampton)  in 


46  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

the  same  year.  The  latter  piece,  beginning,  '  O  that 
't  were  possible,'  etc.,  was,  eighteen  years  afterwards, 
incorporated  into  '  Maud,'  of  which  work  it  may  be 
said  to  have  been  the  germ.  Swinburne,  in  1876  (in 
'The  Academy'  for  January  29),  refers  to  it  as  'the 
poem  of  deepest  charm  and  fullest  delight  of  pathos 
and  melody  ever  written  by  Mr.  Tennyson ;  since  re- 
cast into  new  form  and  refreshed  with  new  beauty  to 
fit  it  for  reappearance  among  the  crowning  passages 
of  "Maud."' 

This  poem  is  also  interesting  as  having  been  the 
subject  of  the  first  notice  that  Tennyson  received  from 
the  '  Edinburgh  Review '  (October,  1837) .  The  writer 
says  :  — 

We  do  not  profess  to  understand  the  somewhat  mys- 
terious contribution  of  Mr.  Alfred  Tennyson,  entitled 
'  Stanzas  ; '  but  amidst  some  quaintness,  and  some  occa- 
sional absurdities  of  expression,  it  is  not  difficult  to  detect 
the  hand  of  a  true  poet  —  such  as  the  author  of  '  Mariana ' 
and  the  lines  on  the  '  Arabian  Nights  '  undoubtedly  is  —  in 
those  stanzas  which  describe  the  appearance  of  a  vision- 
ary form,  by  which  the  writer  is  supposed  to  be  haunted 
amidst  the  streets  of  a  crowded  city. 

The  '  Morte  d'Arthur '  must  also  have  been  written 
as  early  as  1837,  though  not  published  until  1842  ;  for 
Walter  Savage  Landor,  writing  to  a  friend  on  the  9th 
of  December,  1837,  says  :  — 

Yesterday  a  Mr.  Moreton,  a  young  man  of  rare  judg- 
ment, read  to  me  a  manuscript  by  Mr.  Tennyson  very 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON:  47 

different  in  style  from  his  printed  poems.  It  is  more 
Homeric  than  any  poem  of  our  time,  and  rivals  some  of 
the  noblest  parts  of  the  '  Odyssey.' 

According  to  Mr.  Waugh,  it  must  have  been  about 
the  same  time  (1837)  that  'The  Progress  of  Spring' 
was  written,  — '  a  poem  laid  aside  and  forgotten  by 
the  author  till  it  turned  up  again  in  1888,  to  be  printed 
in  the  "  Demeter  "  volume  in  the  following  year.' 

The  poet's  father  had  died  in  1831,  but  the  family 
continued  to  reside  at  Somersby  for  several  years, 
passing  two  Christmas  seasons  there  (see  '  In  Memo- 
riam,'  xxix.  and  Ixxviii.)  after  the  death  of  Arthur 
Hallam.  For  the  greater  part  of  the  years  from 
1837  to  1842  Alfred  appears  to  have  lived  in  London. 
In  1838  he  was  a  member  of  the  Anonymous  Club, 
to  which  Carlyle,  Cunningham,  John  Stuart  Mill, 
Thackeray,  Forster,  Sterling,  Landor,  and  Macready 
belonged. 

Mrs.  Ritchie,  in  the  article  from  which  I  have 
already  quoted,  writes  :  — 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Carlyle  introduced  Sir  John 
Simeon  to  Tennyson  one  night  at  Bath  House,  and  made 
the  often-quoted  speech, '  There  he  sits  upon  a  dungheap 
surrounded  by  innumerable  dead  dogs ; '  by  which  dead 
dogs  he  meant  '  CEnone '  and  other  Greek  versions  and 
adaptations.  He  had  said  the  same  thing  of  Landor  and 
his  Hellenics.  '  I  was  told  of  this,'  said  Mr.  Tennyson, 
'  and  some  time  afterwards  I  repeated  it  to  Carlyle  :  "  I  'm 
told  that  is  what  you  say  of  me."     He  gave  a  kind  of 


48  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

guffaw.  "  Eh,  that  was  n't  a  very  luminous  description  of 
you,"  he  answered.' 

The  story  is  well  worth  retelling,  so  completely  does  it 
illustrate  the  grim  humour  and  unaffected  candour  of  a 
dyspeptic  man  of  genius,  who  flung  words  and  epithets 
without  malice,  who  neither  realised  the  pain  his  chance 
sallies  might  give,  nor  the  indelible  flash  which  branded 
them  upon  people's  memories.  .  .  . 

Carlyle  and  Mr.  Fitzgerald  used  to  be  often  with  Ten- 
nyson at  that  time.  They  used  to  dine  together  at  the 
'  Cock  '  tavern  in  the  Strand  among  other  places  ;  some- 
times Tennyson  and  Carlyle  took  long  solitary  walks  late 
into  the  night. 

At  length  in  1842,  after  repeated  calls  for  a  new 
edition  of  the  earlier  books,  which  had  long  been  out 
of  print,  Tennyson's  protracted  silence  was  broken 
by  the  publication  of  two  volumes  of  '  Poems,'  the 
first  of  which  was  made  up  of  selections  from  the 
volumes  of  1830  and  1832,  with  the  pieces  mentioned 
above  (page  45)  as  written  in  1833.  The  second  vol- 
ume contained  poems  entirely  new,  with  the  exception 
of  *  The  Day-Dream  '  (a  portion  of  which  appeared  in 
1830),  and  '  Saint  Agnes,'  printed  in  1837. 

Among  these  ^  were  ' The  Epic '  ('  Morte  d'Arthur ') , 
'Dora,'  'The  Talking  Oak,'  'Ulysses,'  '  Locksley 
Hall,'  *  Godiva,'  and  '  The  Two  Voices,'  none  of 
which  have  been  materially  altered  since  1842.  Most 
of  the  poems  from  the  volume  of  1832  were  almost 

1  In  the  notes  to  the  poems  in  the  present  edition,  the  date 
of  the  publication  of  each  is  given,  so  that  a  complete  list  is 
unnecessary  here. 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  49 

entirely  rewritten  for  this  edition ;  but  those  from  the 
earlier  volume  of  1830  were  reprinted  with  slight 
alteration. 

The  general  recognition  of  Tennyson  as  chief  poet 
of  the  century  dates  from  this  period.  Hitherto  his  ad- 
mirers had  been  the  select  few,  and  the  leading  critics 
had  been  divided  in  their  estimate  of  his  work ;  but 
now  he  was  hailed  with  almost  unanimous  eulogies. 
'  All  England  rang  with  the  stirring  music  of  "  Locks- 
ley  Hall  \  "  and  nearly  all  of  the  choicer  spirits  of  the 
age  conspired  to  chant  the  praises  of  the  poet  and  to 
do  him  honour.' 

Up  to  this  time  Tennyson  was  almost  unknown  in 
America.  It  is  doubtful  whether  a  dozen  copies  of 
the  volumes  of  1830  and  1832  had  crossed  the  Atlan- 
tic. Neither  of  them  is  to  be  found  in  any  of  our 
great  libraries,  and  in  private  collections  they  are 
exceedingly  rare.  The  only  extended  notice  they 
received  in  any  of  our  literary  journals  of  that  day 
was  in  the  'Christian  Examiner'  in  1S33,  from  the 
pen  of  Mr.  John  S.  Dwight  of  Boston.  He  borrowed 
the  books  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  who  delighted  to 
loan  them  to  his  friends  and  endeavoured  to  have 
them  reprinted  in  Boston.  This  I  learned  from  Mr. 
Samuel  Longfellow,  who  showed  me  a  letter  from 
Messrs.  C.  C.  Little  &  Co.  to  his  brother  the  poet, 
dated  April  27,  1838,  in  which  they  refer  to  Emerson's 
desire  for  an  American  reprint  of  Tennyson,  and  their 

VOL.  I.  —  4 


50  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

intention  of  making  one ;    but  for  some  reason   the 
plan  was  not  carried  out. 

The  edition  of  1842  was  reprinted  the  same  year  in 
Boston  by  Mr.  W.  D.  Ticknor ;  but  fifteen  hundred 
copies  sufficed  to  supply  the  American  demand  for  the 
next  three  years.  The  poet,  however,  found  here  *  fit 
audience,  though  it'N.^  The  volumes  were  reviewed 
by  Prof.  C.  C.  Felton  in  the  '  Christian  Examiner '  for 
November,  1842  ;  and  in  the  '  Democratic  Review'  for 
January,  1844,  by  Mrs.  Frances  Kemble.  In  the  latter 
magazine  for  December,  1844,  Edgar  A.  Poe  re- 
marked :  — 

I  am  not  sure  that  Tennyson  is  not  the  greatest  of 
poets.  The  uncertainty  attending  the  public  conception 
of  the  term  poet  alone  prevents  me  from  demonstrating 
that  he  is.  Other  bards  produce  effects  which  are,  now 
and  then,  otherwise  produced  than  by  what  we  call  poems, 
but  Tennyson  an  effect  which  only  a  poem  does.  His 
alone  are  idiosyncratic  poems.  By  the  enjoyment  or 
non-enjoyment  of  the  '  Morte  d'Arthur,'  or  of  the 
'  CEnone,'  I  would  test  any  one's  ideal  sense. 

Margaret  Fuller  wrote  thus  in  August,  1842  :  — 

I  have  just  been  reading  the  new  poems  of  Tennyson. 
Much  has  he  thought,  much  suffered,  since  the  first 
ecstasy  of  so  fine  an  organisation  clothed  all  the  world  in 
rosy  light.  He  has  not  suffered  himself  to  become  a  mere 
intellectual  voluptuary,  nor  the  songster  of  fancy  and 
passion,  but  has  earnestly  revolved  the  problems  of  life, 
and  his  conclusions  are  calmly  noble.  In  these  later 
verses  is  a  still,  deep  sweetness ;  how  different  from  the 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  51 

intoxicating,  sensuous  melody  of  his  earlier  cadence  !  I 
have  loved  him  much  this  time,  and  taken  him  to  heart  as 
a  brother.  One  of  his  themes  lias  long  been  my  favourite, 
—  the  last  expedition  of  Ulysses,  —  and  his,  like  mine,  is 
the  Ulysses  of  the  '  Odyssey,'  with  his  deep  romance  of 
wisdom,  and  not  the  worldling  of  the  '  Iliad.'  How  finely 
masked  his  slight  description  of  himself  and  of  Telema- 
chus  !  In  '  Dora,'  '  Locksley  Hall,'  'The  Two  Voices,' 
'  Morte  d'Arthur,'  I  find  my  own  life,  much  of  it,  written 
out. 

In  England  a  second  edition  of  the  '  Poems '  was 
called  for  within  a  year,  and  two  more  editions  were 
issued  in  1845  and  1846.  The  volumes  were  reviewed 
in  1842  by  Richard  Monckton  Milnes  (Lord  Houghton) 
in  the  *  Westminster '  (October)  ;  by  John  Sterling  in 
the  '  Quarterly '  (October)  ;  and  anonymously  in  the 
'Examiner'  (August  28),  'Tait's  Edinburgh  Maga- 
zine '  (August),  and  the  '  London  University  Magazine  ' 
(December).  Most  of  these  criticisms  were  highly 
eulogistic. 

In  1844  a  portrait  of  Tennyson,  with  a  criticism  of 
his  work,  appeared  in  '  A  New  Spirit  of  the  Age,' 
edited  by  Richard  Hengist  Home,  the  author  of 
*  Orion.'     He  remarked  :  — 

It  may  fairly  be  assumed  that  the  position  of  Alfred 
Tennyson,  as  a  poet  of  fine  genius,  is  now  thoroughly 
established  in  the  minds  of  all  sincere  and  qualified 
lovers  of  the  higher  classes  of  poetry  in  this  country.  But 
what  is  his  position  in  the  public  mind  ?  Or,  rather,  to 
what  extent  is  he  known  to  the  great  mass  of  general 
readers  ?     Choice  and  limited  is  the  audience,  we  appre- 


52  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

hend,  to  whom  this  favoured  son  of  Apollo  pours  forth 
his  melodious  song.  It  is  true,  however,  that  the  public 
is  '  a  rising  man  '  in  its  gradual  appreciation,  perhaps,  of 
every  genius  of  the  present  time  ;  and  certainly  this 
appreciation  is  really  on  the  rise  with  respect  to  the 
poetry  of  Tennyson.  It  is  only  some  thirteen  years  since 
he  published  his  first  volume ;  and  if  it  require  all  this 
time  for  '  the  best  judges '  to  discover  his  existence,  and 
determine  '  in  one  way,  and  the  other,'  upon  some  of  his 
most  original  features,  the  public  may  be  excused  for  not 
knowing  more  about  his  poems  than  they  do  at  present. 
That  they  desire  to  know  more  is  apparent  from  many 
circumstances,  and  partly  from  the  fact  of  the  last  edition 
of  his  works,  in  two  volumes,  having  been  disposed  of  in 
a  few  months.  Probably  the  edition  was  not  large ;  such, 
however,  is  the  result  after  thirteen  years.  .  .  . 

His  power  as  a  lyrical  versifier  is  remarkable.  The 
measures  flow  softly  or  roll  nobly  to  his  pen  ;  as  well  one 
as  the  other.  He  can  gather  up  his  strength,  like  a  ser- 
pent, in  the  gleaming  coil  of  a  line  ;  or  dart  it  out  straight 
and  free.  Nay,  he  will  write  you  a  poem  with  nothing  in 
it  except  music,  and  as  if  its  music  were  everything,  it 
shall  charm  your  soul.  Be  this  said,  not  in  reproach,  but 
in  honour  of  him  and  of  the  English  language,  for  the 
learned  sweetness  of  his  numbers.  The  Italian  lyrists 
may  take  counsel,  or  at  once  enjoy,  '  Where  Claribel  low 
lieth.'  But  if  sweetness  of  melody,  and  richness  of 
harmony,  be  the  most  exquisitely  sensuous  of  Tennyson's 
characteristics,  he  is  no  less  able  to  '  pipe  to  the  spirit 
ditties  of  no  tone,'  for  certainly  his  works  are  equally 
characterised  by  their  thoughtful  grace,  depth  of  senti- 
ment, and  ideal  beauty.  And  he  not  only  has  the  most 
musical  words  at  his  command  (without  having  recourse 
to  exotic  terminologies),  but  he  possesses  the  power  of 
conveying  a  sense  of  colour,  and  a  precision  of  outline  by 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON:  53 

means  of  words,  to  an  extraordinary  degree.  In  music 
and  colour  he  was  equalled  by  Shelley,  but  mforfn,  clearly 
defined,  with  no  apparent  effort,  and  no  harsh  shades  or 
lines,  Tennyson  stands  unrivalled. 

His  ideality  is  both  adornative  and  creative,  although 
up  to  this  period  it  is  ostensibly  rather  the  former  than 
the  latter.  His  ideal  faculty  is  either  satisfied  with  an 
exquisitely  delicate  arabesque  painting,  or  clears  the 
ground  before  him  so  as  to  melt  and  disperse  all  other 
objects  into  a  suitable  atmosphere,  or  aerial  perspective, 
while  he  takes  horse  on  a  passionate  impulse,  as  in  some 
of  his  ballads  which  seem  to  have  been  panted  through 
without  a  single  pause.  This  is  the  case  in  '  Oriana,'  in 
'  Locksley  Hall,'  in  '  The  Sisters,'  etc.  Or,  at  other 
times,  selecting  some  ancient  theme,  he  stands  collected 
and  self-contained,  and  rolls  out,  with  an  impressive  sense 
of  dignity,  orb  after  orb  of  that  grand  melancholy  music 
of  blank  verse  which  leaves  long  vibrations  in  the  reader's 
memory ;  as  in  '  Ulysses,'  the  divine  '  CEnone,'  or  the 
'Morte  d'Arthur.'  .  .  . 

With  respect  to  '  CEnone,'  it  is  an  exquisitely  success- 
ful attempt  of  the  poet  to  infuse  his  own  beating  heart's 
blood  into  the  pale,  blind  statues  of  the  antique  times,  and 
loses  no  jot  of  the  majesty,  while  the  vitality  informs  the 
grace.  It  is  not  surpassed  by  anything  of  the  kind  in 
Keats,  or  Shelley,  or  Landor.  The  '  Morte  d'Arthur ' 
precisely  reverses  the  design  of  the  Greek  revival,  and, 
with  equal  success,  draws  back  the  Homeric  blood  and 
spirit   to  inspire  a  romantic  legend. 

Of  the  '  Ulysses  '  we  would  say  that  the  mild  dignity 
and  placid  resolve ;  the  steady  wisdom  after  the  storms 
of  life,  and  with  the  prospect  of  future  storms ;  the  mel- 
ancholy fortitude,  yet  kingly  resignation  to  his  destiny 
which  gives  him  a  restless  passion  for  wandering;    the 


54  THE   LIFE   AND    WORKS 

unaffected  and  unostentatious  modesty  and  self-conscious 
power;  the  long  softened  shadows  of  memory  cast  from 
the  remote  vistas  of  practical  knowledge  and  experience, 
with  a  suffusing  tone  of  ideality  breathing  over  the 
whole,  and  giving  a  saddened  charm  even  to  the  sugges- 
tion of  a  watery  grave,  —  all  this,  and  much  more,  inde- 
pendent of  the  beautiful  picturesqueness  of  the  scenery, 
render  the  poem  of  '  Ulysses '  one  of  the  most  exquisite 
(as  it  has  hitherto  been  one  of  the  least  noticed)  poems  in 
the  language.  ^ 

Wordsworth  and  Tennyson  met  at  the  publisher 
Moxon's  house  in  1843  ;  and  two  years  later  (July  i, 
1845)  the  venerable  Laureate  wrote  to  Prof.  Henry 
Reed  of  Philadelphia  :  '  I  saw  Tennyson  when  I  was 
in  London  several  times.  He  is  decidedly  the  first  of 
our  living  poets,  and  I  hope  will  live  to  give  the 
world  still  better  things.' 

It  was  in  September  of  the  next  year  (1846)  that 
Mr.  Thomas  Cooper  asked  Wordsworth's  opinion  of 
the  poetry  of  the  day.  '  There  is  little  that  can  be 
called  high  poetry/  was  the  reply.  '  Mr.  Tennyson 
affords  the  richest  promise.  He  will  do  great  things 
yet,  and  ought  to  have  done  greater  things  by  this 
time.'  Cooper  remarked  that  Tennyson's  sense  of 
music  seemed  more  perfect  than  that  of  any  of  the 
new  race  of  poets.     '  Yes,'    said  Wordsworth ;    '  the 

1  Home's  book  was  reprinted  in  New  York  in  1844,  and 
doubtless  helped  to  make  Tennyson  better  known  in  this 
country. 


I 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  55 

perception  of  harmony  lies  in  the  very  essence  of 
the  poet's  nature,  and  Mr.  Tennyson  gives  magnifi- 
cent proofs  that  he  is  endowed  with  it.'  Cooper 
cited  Tennyson's  '  rich  association  of  musical  words ' 
as  proof  of  his  possessing  *  as  fine  a  sense  of  music 
in  syllables  as  Keats  and  even  Milton,'  and  to  this 
Wordsworth  assented  with  an   approving  smile. 

In  August,  1844,  Thomas  Carlyle,  in  reply  to  a 
letter  from  Emerson,  asking  for  a  description  of  Ten- 
nyson, wrote  thus : — 

Moxon  informs  me  that  Tennyson  is  now  in  town,  and 
means  to  come  and  see  me.  Of  this  latter  result  I  shall 
be  very  glad.  Alfred  is  one  of  the  few  British  and  foreign 
figures  (a  not  increasing  number,  I  think)  who  are  and  re- 
main beautiful  to  me,  —  a  true  human  soul,  or  some  au- 
thentic approximation  thereto,  to  whom  your  own  soul 
can  say,  Brother !  .  .  .  I  think  he  must  be  under  forty  — 
not  much  under  it.  One  of  the  finest-looking  men  in  the 
world.  A  great  shock  of  rough,  dusty-dark  hair;  bright, 
laughing,  hazel  eyes ;  massive  aquiline  face,  most  massive 
yet  most  delicate;  of  sallow-brown  complexion,  almost 
Indian-looking;  clothes  cynically  loose,  free-and-easy; 
smokes  infinite  tobacco.  His  voice  is  musical  metallic,  — 
fit  for  loud  laughter  and  piercing  wail,  and  all  that  may 
lie  between ;  speech  and  speculation  free  and  plenteous ; 
I  do  not  meet,  in  these  late  decades,  such  company  over 
a  pipe !     We  shall  see  what  he  will  grow  to. 

Emerson  wrote  in  reply  :  *  The  sketch  you  drew  of 
Tennyson  was  right  welcome,  for  he  is  an  old  favourite 
of  mine,  —  I  owned  his  book  before  I  saw  your  face, 
—  though  I  love  him  with  allowance.     O,  cherish  him 


$6  THE   LIFE  AND    WORKS 

with  love  and  praise,  and  draw  from  him  whole  books 
full  of  new  verses  yet ! ' 

In  1S43  Tennyson  was  parodied  in  a  somewhat 
ribald  manner  in  the  '  Bon  Gualtier  Ballads  '  by  Theo- 
dore (afterwards  Sir  Theodore)  Martin  and  William 
Edmonstoune  Aytoun,  which  appeared  in  '  Tait's ' 
and  'Eraser's'  Magazines,  and  later  (1845)  i^  book 
form,  ]Martin  had  afterwards  the  grace  to  apologise 
in  a  way  for  these  travesties.     He  said  :  — 

In  these  papers  we  ran  a-tilt,  with  all  the  recklessness 
of  youthful  spirits,  against  such  of  the  tastes  or  follies 
of  the  day  as  presented  an  opening  for  ridicule  or  mirth. 
.  .  .  Fortunately  for  our  purpose,  there  were  then  liv- 
ing not  a  few  poets  whose  st3-le  and  manner  of  thought 
were  sufficiently  marked  to  make  imitation  easy,  and  suffi- 
ciently popular  for  a  parody  of  their  characteristics  to  be 
readily  recognised.  ...  It  was  precisely  the  poets  whom 
we  most  admired  that  we  imitated  the  most  frequently. 
This  was  not  certainly  from  any  want  of  reverence,  but 
rather  out  of  the  fulness  of  our  admiration,  just  as  the  ex- 
cess of  a  lover's  fondness  often  runs  over  into  raillery  of 
the  very  qualities  that  are  dearest  to  his  heart. 

In  1845  Tennyson  was  the  recipient  of  a  govern- 
ment pension  of  _;^200  a  year,  which  provoked  some 
ill-natured  newspaper  criticism,  and  led  Bulwer  Lyt- 
ton,  in  'The  New  Timon  '  (London,  1846),  to  sneer 
at  the  '  Theban  taste '  that  '  pensions  Tennyson 
while  starves  a  Knowles.'  The  productions  of 
*  School-miss  Alfred  '  were  described  as  '  Out-baby- 
ing Wordsworth  and  out-glittering  Keats,'  with  much 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  57 

more  in  the  same  vein.  The  attack  drew  from 
Tennyson  a  rejoinder  printed  in  'Punch'  (Feb.  18, 
1846),  over  the  signature  of  '  Alcibiades,'  and  fol- 
lowed in  the  next  number  by  another,  less  severe,  en- 
titled '  After-thought.'  In  this  '  sober  second  thought ' 
the  poet  comes  to  the  wise  conclusion  that  silence  is 
*  the  noblest  answer '  to  all  such  spiteful  attacks. 

It  is  pleasant  to  be  able  to  add  that  Bulwer  struck 
out  the  offensive  verses  from  the  third  edition  of 
'  The  New  Timon,'  and  that  the  two  authors  after- 
wards became  good  friends.  In  a  public  speech  in 
1862,  Lytton,  in  alluding  to  Prince  Albert,  quoted 
what  he  called,  '  the  thought  so  exquisitely  expressed 
by  our  Poet-Laureate,' — namely,  that  the  Prince  is 
'  the  silent  father  of  our  kings  to  be ; '  and  later 
Tennyson,  in  dedicating  '  Harold '  to  the  younger 
Lytton,  gracefully  acknowledged  his  indebtedness  to 
the  novel  on  the  same  subject  by  the  elder  Lytton. 

The  poet  was  in  no  haste  to  send  forth  the  *  greater 
work '  for  which  his  friends  were  clamouring ;  and 
for  the  five  years  between  1842  and  1847,  he  pub- 
lished nothing  new  except  '  The  Golden  Year,'  which 
was  added  to  the  fourth  edition  of  the  '  Poems  '  in 
1846.  We  know  little  of  his  life  during  this  period. 
William  Howitt  in  1847,  in  the  work  from  which  I 
have  before  quoted,  says  :  — 

It  is  very  possible  you  may  come  across  him,  in  a  coun- 
try inn,  with  a  foot  on  each  hob  of  the  fireplace,  a  volume 


58  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

of  Greek  in  one  hand,  his  meerschaum  in  the  other,  so 
far  advanced  towards  the  seventh  heaven  that  he  would 
not  thank  you  to  call  him  back  into  this  nether  world. 

In  1847  'The  Princess'  appeared.  The  idea  of 
the  poem,  as  some  have  thought,  may  have  been  sug- 
gested by  Johnson's  '  Rasselas,'  where  we  read  :  '  The 
princess  thought  that  of  all  sublunary  things  knowledge 
was  the  best.  She  desired  first  to  learn  of  sciences,  and 
then  proposed  to  found  a  college  to  teach  women,  in 
which  she  would  preside.'  In  '  Love's  Labour  's  Lost ' 
the  King  of  Navarre  and  his  friends  would  form  '  a 
little  Academe '  from  which  women  are  to  be  ex- 
cluded j  but  Dan  Cupid  spoils  the  plan  as  he  does  in 
Tennyson's  poem. 

Mrs.  Ritchie  remarks  :  — 

'  The  Princess,'  with  all  her  lovely  court  and  glowing 
harmonies,  was  born  in  London,  among  the  fogs  and 
smuts  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  although,  like  all  works  of  true 
art,  this  poem  had  grown  by  degrees  in  other  times  and 
places.  The  poet  came  and  went,  free,  unshackled,  medi- 
tating, inditing.  One  of  my  family  remembers  hearing 
Tennyson  say  that  '  Tears,  idle  Tears,'  was  suggested  by 
Tintern  Abbey ;  who  shall  say  by  what  mysterious  wonder 
of  beauty  and  regret,  by  what  sense  of  the  '  transient 
with  the  abiding  '  1 

'  The  Princess '  was  at  first  received  with  little 
favour  by  the  critics.     Mr.  Wace  says  of  it :  — 

Although  admittedly  brilliant,  it  was  thought  scarce 
worthy  of  the  author.     The  abundant  grace,  descriptive 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  59 

beauty,  and  human  sentiment  were  evident ;  but  the  med- 
ley was  thought  somewhat  incongruous,  and  the  main 
web  of  the  tale  too  weak  to  sustain  the  embroidery  raised 
upon  it. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  few  eminent  critics  were 
prompt  to  recognise  the  true  merit  of  the  poem. 
In  this  country,  Prof.  James  Hadley,  of  Yale  Col- 
lege, wrote  a  long  and  laudatory  review  of  it  for 
the  'New  Englander'  (May,  1849),  which  has  been 
reprinted  in  a  revised  form  in  his  '  Essays,  Philologi- 
cal and  Critical.'  ^ 

A  second  edition  of  '  The  Princess '  was  called  for 
within  a  year ;  and  a  third  edition,  materially  altered, 
and  with  the  addition  of  the  intercalary  songs,  ap- 
peared in   1S50. 

In  1849  the  lines  'To ,  after  Reading  a  Life 

and  Letters,'  were  contributed  to  the  '  Examiner '  for 
March  24.  The  poet  published  nothing  else  until 
1850,  when  '  In  Memoriam  '  was  given  to  the  world, — 
the  poet's  '  most  characteristic  and  significant  work ; 
not  so  ambitious  as  his  epic  of  King  Arthur,  but  more 
distinctively  a  poem  of  this  century,  and  displaying 
the  author's  genius  in  a  subjective  form.'  It  is  said 
that,  a  few  years  ago,  when  a  number  of  authors  were 
asked  to  name  three  leading  poems  of  this  century 
they  would  most  prefer  to  have  written,  each  gave  '  In 

1  For  some  quotations  from  this  and  other  early  reviews  of 
'  The  Princess,'  see  the  notes  on  the  poem  in  the  present 
edition. 


6o  THE  LIFE   AND    WORKS 

Memoriam '  either  the  first  or  second  place  upon  his 
list.  '  Obviously  it  is  not  a  work  to  read  at  a  sitting, 
nor  to  take  up  in  every  mood,  but  one  in  which  we 
are  sure  to  find  something  of  worth  in  every  stanza. 
It  contains  more  notable  sayings  than  any  other  of 
Tennyson's  poems.  The  wisdom,  yearnings,  and  as- 
pirations of  a  noble  mind  are  here  ;  curious  reasoning, 
for  once,  is  not  out  of  place ;  the  poet's  imagination, 
shut  in  upon  itself,  strives  to  irradiate  with  inward 
light  the  mystic  problems  of  life.  At  the  close.  Na- 
ture's eternal  miracle  is  made  symbolic  of  the  soul's 
palingenesis,  and  the  tender  and  beautiful  marriage- 
lay  tranquillises  the  reader  with  the  thought  of  the 
dear  common  joys  which  are  the  heritage  of  every 
living  kind.'  ^ 

In  this  same  year,  1850,  on  the  13th  of  June,  the 
poet  was  married  to  Emily  Sellwood,  the  daughter  of 
Mr.  Henry  Sellwood,  a  solicitor  at  Horncastle,  belong- 
ing to  one  of  the  oldest  families  of  Berkshire.  His 
wife  was  a  sister  of  Sir  John  Franklin,  the  famous 
Arctic  navigator.  Charles  Tennyson  Turner  married 
a  younger  daughter  of  Mr.  Sellwood.  The  marriage 
of  Alfred  Tennyson  and  Miss  Sellwood  was  solemnised 
at  Shiplake,  a  parish  on  the  Oxfordshire  side  of  the 
Thames,  a  few  miles  from  Henley.  '  The  church  and 
vicarage  stand  upon  a  somewhat  bold  eminence  over- 
looking the  valley  of  the  Thames  in  the  direction  of 
1  Stedman. 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON:  6l 

Sonning  and  Reading.  The  view,  of  which  some 
glimpses  can  be  obtained  through  the  trees  which 
almost  encircle  the  churchyard,  is  not  wholly  unlike 
the  prospect  of  the  Thames  from  Richmond  Hill.'  ^ 
Mr.  James  T.  Fields  says :  '  Once,  I  remem- 
ber, Miss  Mitford  carried  me  on  a  pilgrimage  to  a 
grand  old  village  church  with  a  tower  half- covered 
with  ivy.  We  came  to  it  through  laurel  hedges,  and 
passed  on  the  way  a  magnificent  cedar  of  Lebanon. 
It  was  a  superb  pile,  rich  in  painted  glass  windows  and 
carved  oak  ornaments.  Here  Miss  Mitford  ordered 
the  man  to  stop,  and  turning  to  me  with  great  enthu- 
siasm, said,  "  This  is  Shiplake  Church,  where  Alfred 
Tennyson  was  married."  ' 

On  the  19th  of  November,  1850,  Tennyson  was  ap- 
pointed to  succeed  Wordsworth  as  Poet- Laureate.  His 
formal  presentation  to  the  Queen  in  this  capacity  took 
place  at  Buckingham  Palace  on  the  6th  of  March, 
1851. 

After  his  marriage  Tennyson  lived  two  years  (ex- 
cept for  a  visit  to  France  and  Italy)  at  Twickenham, 
which  was  thus  made  '  twice  classic '  and  '  more 
worthy  of  a  pilgrimage  in  future  days  than  all  the 
memories  it  can  boast  of  Walpole  and  Pope '  may 
render  it.  Here  the  poet's  son  Hallam  was  born  in 
1852. 

In  1850  Tennyson  contributed  a  stanza  of  eight 
^  Church. 


62  THE   LIFE  AND    WORKS 

lines  ('  Here  often  when  a  child  I  lay  reclined/  etc.) 
to  '  The  Manchester  Athenaeum  Album,'  which  he  did 
not  think  worth  preserving. 

In  1 85 1  he  wrote  for  'The  Keepsake'  the  lines, 
'Come  not  when  I  am  dead,'  and  the  following 
stanzas,  which  are  not  included  in  his  published 
volumes :  — 

What  time  I  wasted  youthful  hours, 

One  of  the  shining  winged  powers 

Show'd  me  vast  cliffs,  with  crowns  of  towers. 

As  toward  that  gracious  light  I  bow'd, 
They  seem'd  high  palaces  and  proud, 
Hid  now  and  then  with  sliding  cloud. 

He  said,  '  The  labour  is  not  small ; 
Yet  winds  the  pathway  free  to  all : 
Take  care  thou  dost  not  fear  to  fall ! ' 

Other  contributors  to  '  The  Keepsake '  were  Lord 
John  Manners,  Monckton  Milnes,  Bulwer  Lytton,  Barry 
Cornwall,  Thackeray,  and  Albert  Smith.  The  same 
year  Tennyson  wrote  a  sonnet  to  William  Charles 
Macready,  to  be  read  at  a  dinner  given  to  the  actor, 
March  i,  on  his  retirement  from  the  stage.  This 
was  among  the  rejected  poems  until  1891. 

Three  editions  of  '  In  Memoriam  '  had  been  issued 
in  1850;  and  the  fourth,  in  1851,  contained  the  new 
section  (lix.),  'O  sorrow,  wilt  thou  live  with  me?' 
The  fourth  revised  edition  of  '  The  Princess '  also  ap- 
peared  this  year,    and   the    seventh   edition   of  the 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  dl 

*  Poems,'  with  the  dedicatory  verses  to  the  Queen  and 
three  other  new  poems  :  '  Edwin  Morris  ; '  '  Come 
not  when  I  am  dead,'  which  has  already  been  men- 
tioned ;  and  *  The  Eagle.'  The  following  stanza  in 
the  address  to  the  Queen,  referring  to  the  Crystal 
Palace  Exhibition  of  1851,  was  afterwards  omitted: 

She  brought  a  vast  design  to  pass, 
When  Europe  and  the  scattered  ends 
Of  our  fierce  world  did  meet  as  friends 

And  brethren  in  her  halls  of  glass. 

In  December,  185 1,  Louis  Napoleon's  famous 
coup  (Tetat  startled  the  world ;  and  early  in  the  fol- 
lowing year  the  Laureate  wrote  the  three  spirited 
poems,  '  Britons,  Guard  your  Own,'  '  The  Third  of 
February,'  and  '  Hands  all  Round.'  The  first  (printed 
in  the  'Examiner'  for  January  31)  has  not  been 
preserved  among  the  collected  poems  of  the  author. 
The  other  two  poems  (both  printed  in  the  '  Exam- 
iner' for  February  7),  with  sundry  alterations  (for 
which  see  the  'Notes'),  have  since  been  included  in 
the  published  volumes. 

In  November,  1852,  the  Duke  of  Wellington  died, 
and  on  the  day  of  his  funeral  the  great  '  Ode '  in 
memory  of  the  hero  was  published.  A  second  edi- 
tion, considerably  modified,  soon  followed. 

In  1853  the  eighth  edition  of  the  'Poems'  was 
brought  out,  with  alterations  in  the  dedication  to  the 
Queen.     The  '  Sea- Fairies,'  from  the  volume  of  1830, 


64  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

was  restored,  and  the  lines  '  To  E.  L.  on  his  Travels 
in  Greece  '  were  added.  A  fifth  edition  of  '  The  Prin- 
cess '  also  appeared,  with  the  addition  of  the  pas- 
sage from  '  the  gallant  glorious  chronicle '  in  the 
Prologue. 

In  1852  Tennyson  had  purchased  the  estate  of 
Farringford,  at  Freshwater,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  and 
the  next  year  he  took  up  his  residence  there.  Mr. 
Church  gives  the  following  description  and  history 
of  the  place  :  — 

The  domain  of  Farringford  can  be  seen  on  the  travel- 
ler's right  hand  as  he  makes  his  way  westward  from  Fresh- 
water Bay,  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  inland  slope  of  the 
down.  The  house  itself  is  not  visible  from  any  point  of 
this  route,  but  a  glimpse  of  the  roof  may  be  caught  from 
the  ascent  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  bay.  The  estate 
extends  to  between  four  and  five  hundred  acres,  part  of 
them  downland,  and  contains  what  is  known  as  King's 
Manor.  The  royal  ownership  indicated  by  this  name  is  re- 
corded by  Domesday  Book,  where  we  find  the  following 
entry:  'Ye  King  holds  Frescewatre  in  demesne.  It  was 
held  by  Tosti  [Earl  Tostig,  brother  of  King  Harold  ;  this, 
of  course,  refers  to  the  '  time  of  King  Edward,'  a  standard 
of  comparison  used  throughout  the  Survey],  and  was  then 
assessed  at  15  hides.  It  is  now  assessed  at  6  hides. 
There  are  fifteen  ploughlands,  two  ploughlands  are  in 
demesne,  and  18  villages  and  10  borderers  employ  8 
ploughs.  There  are  seven  servants  and  six  acres  of 
meadow.  It  was  worth  in  King  Edward's  time  sixteen 
pounds  and  afterwards  twenty  pounds ;  but  it  is  let 
at  thirty  pounds." 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON-.  65 

At  this  time,  therefore,  all  Freshwater  was  what  we 
should  call  Crown  lands.  But  it  would  appear  that  part 
of  it  was  afterwards  bestowed  on  some  ecclesiastical  body. 
This  body  seems  to  have  been  the  Abbey  of  Quarr  or  Quar- 
rera  (so  called  from  the  stone  quarries  in  the  neighbour- 
hood). Quarr  was  near  the  town  of  Ryde,  and  was  one 
of  the  first  Cistercian  monasteries  established  in  England. 
Its  first  foundation  was  due  to  Baldwin,  Earl  of  Devon, 
who  endowed  it  in  the  thirty-second  year  of  Henry  I.  Sub- 
sequent benefactors  added  to  its  revenues,  and  at  the  dis- 
solution its  income  was  estimated  at  ;/^  134  3  j.  \\d.  Some 
of  the  local  names  recall  this  ecclesiastical  ownership. 
Among  them  are  'Maiden's  Croft '('Virgin  Mary's  Field'), 
'Abraham's  Mead,' and  'The  Clerk's  Hill.'  Lord  Ten- 
nyson has  in  his  possession  transference  deeds  signed  by 
Walter  de  Fferingford,  evidently  the  chief  owner  of  land 
at  Freshwater.  .  .  . 

The  house,  while  not  possessing  any  architectural  pre- 
tensions, has  something  singularly  attractive  about  it. 
Not  the  least  of  its  charms  are  the  creeping  plants  which 
clothe  it  from  roof-tree  to  foundation  with  a  mantle  ol 
green.  A  delightful  garden,  laid  out  by  the  poet  and 
his  wife,  surrounds  it,  and  beyond  this  again  is  a  small 
well-wooded  park.  Both  house  and  park  are  sheltered 
from  the  southwesterly  gales  by  a  ridge  of  down.  West- 
ward of  the  house  is  a  walled  garden,  and  beyond  this 
again  the  home  or  dairy  farm.  .  .  . 

The  poet's  younger  son  Lionel  was  born  here  [in  1854]. 
The  tablet  which  commemorates  him  —  he  died  on  his 
way  home  from  India  [April  20,  1886]  —  is  to  be  seen  in 
Freshwater  Church.  ...  A  beautiful  statue  of  St.  John, 
from  the  chisel  of  Miss  Mary  Grant,  has  been  erected  by 
Lord  and  Lady  Tennyson  near  the  communion  table  of 
the  church  in  memory  of  their  son. 

VOL.  I.  —  5 


66  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

Mrs.  Ritchie,  who  spent  some  weeks  with  Mrs. 
Cameron  (well  known  for  her  artistic  photographs) 
at  Freshwater,  refers  to  the  place  thus :  — 

The  house  at  Farringford  seemed  like  a  charmed 
palace,  with  green  walls  without,  and  speaking  walls 
within.  There  hung  Dante  with  his  solemn  nose  and 
wreath;  Italy  gleamed  over  the  doorways;  friends' faces 
lined  the  way ;  books  filled  the  shelves,  and  a  glow  of 
crimson  was  everywhere ;  the  great  oriel  drawing-room 
window  was  full  of  green  and  golden  leaves,  of  the  sound 
of  birds,  and  of  the  distant  sea. 

The  very  names  of  the  people  who  have  stood  upon 
the  lawn  at  Farringford  would  be  an  interesting  study  for 
some  future  biographer  :  Longfellow,  Maurice,  Kingsley, 
the  Duke  of  Argyll,  Locker,  Dean  Stanley,  the  Prince 
Consort.  Good  Garibaldi  once  planted  a  tree  there,  off 
which  some  too  ardent  republican  broke  a  branch  before 
twenty-four  hours  had  passed.  Here  came  Clough  in  the 
last  year  of  his  life.  Here  Mrs.  Cameron  fixed  her  lens, 
marking  the  well-known  faces  as  they  passed :  Darwin 
and  Henry  Taylor,  Watts  and  Aubrey  de  Vere,  Lecky 
and  Jowett,  and  a  score  of  others. 

I  first  knew  the  place  in  the  autumn,  but  perhaps  it  is 
even  more  beautiful  in  spring-time,  when  all  day  the  lark 
trills  high  overhead,  and  then  when  the  lark  has  flown  out 
of  our  hearing  the  thrushes  begin,  and  the  air  is  sweet 
with  scents  from  the  many  fragrant  shrubs.  The  woods 
are  full  of  anemones  and  primroses  ;  narcissus  grows  wild 
in  the  lower  fields;  a  lovely  creamy  stream  of  flowers 
flows  along  the  lanes,  and  lies  hidden  in  the  levels;  hya- 
cinth pools  of  blue  shine  in  the  woods;  and  then  with  a 
later  burst  of  glory  comes  the  gorse,  lighting  up  the 
country  round  about,  and  blazing  round  about  the  beacon 


J 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  67 

hill.  ...  If  you  cross  the  little  wood  of  nightingales  and 
thrushes,  and  follow  the  lane  where  the  blackthorn  hedges 
shine  in  spring-time  (lovely  dials  that  illuminate  to  show 
the  hour),  you  come  to  the  downs,  and  climbing  their 
smooth  steeps  you  reach  '  Mr.  Tennyson's  Down,'  where 
the  beacon-staff  stands  firm  upon  the  mound.  Then,  fol- 
lowing the  line  of  the  coast,  you  come  at  last  to  the 
Needles,  and  may  look  down  upon  the  ridge  of  rocks  that 
rises,  crisp,  sharp,  shining,  out  of  the  blue  wash  of  fierce, 
delicious  waters. 

The  lovely  places  and  sweet  country  all  about  Farring- 
ford  are  not  among  the  least  of  its  charms.  Beyond  the 
Primrose  Island  itself  and  the  blue  Solent,  the  New  For- 
est spreads  its  shades,  and  the  green  depths  reach  to  the 
very  shores.  Have  we  not  all  read  of  the  forest  where 
Merlin  was  becharmed,  where  the  winds  were  still  in  the 
wild  woods  of  Broceliande  ?  The  forest  of  Brockenhurst, 
in  Hampshire,  waves  no  less  green,  its  ferns  and  depths 
are  no  less  sweet  and  sylvan,  than  those  of  Brittany. 

Before  an  oak,  so  hollow,  huge,  and  old 
It  look'd  a  tower  of  ruin'd  mason-work, 
At  Merlin's  feet  the  wily  Vivien  lay. 

I  have  heard  of  Mr.  Tennyson  wandering  for  days  to- 
gether in  the  glades  round  about  Lyndhurst.  Some  peo- 
ple once  told  me  of  meeting  a  mysterious  figure  in  a  cloak 
coming  out  of  a  deep  glade,  passing  straight  on,  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left.  '  It  was  either  a  ghost 
or  it  was  Mr.  Tennyson,'  said  they. 

The  only  poem  published  by  Tennyson  in  1S54  was 
'The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,'  printed  in  the 
'  Examiner '  of  December  9,  with  the  note  :  '  Writ- 
ten after  reading  the  first  report  of  the  "  Times'  "  cor- 


68  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

respondent,  where  only  607  sabres  are  mentioned  as 
having  taken  part  in  the  charge.'  It  was  printed  af- 
terwards on  a  quarto  sheet  of  four  pages,  with  the  fol- 
lowing note  at  the  bottom  :  — 

Having  heard  that  the  brave  soldiers  at  Sebastopol, 
whom  I  am  proud  to  call  my  countrymen,  have  a  liking 
for  my  ballad  on  the  charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  at 
Balaclava,  I  have  ordered  a  thousand  copies  of  it  to  be 
printed  for  them.  No  writing  of  mine  can  add  to  the 
glory  they  have  acquired  in  the  Crimea ;  but  if  what  I 
heard  be  true,  they  will  not  be  displeased  to  receive  these 
copies  of  the  ballad  from  me,  and  to  know  that  those  who 
sit  at  home  love  and  honour  them. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 
%th  August,  1 8 55. 

In  the  spring  of  1854,  Dr.  Elisha  Kent  Kane,  the 
Arctic  explorer,  gave  the  name  of '  Tennyson's  Monu- 
ment '  to  a  rocky  formation  in  Greenland,  of  which 
he  gives  the  following  description  in  his  'Arctic 
Explorations ' :  — 

A  single  cliff  of  greenstone,  marked  by  the  slaty 
limestone  that  once  encased  it,  rears  itself  from  a  crum- 
bled base  of  sandstones,  hke  the  boldly  chiselled  rampart 
of  an  ancient  city.  At  its  northern  extremity,  on  the 
brink  of  a  deep  ravine  which  has  worn  its  way  among  the 
ruins,  there  stands  a  solitary  column  or  minaret-tower,  as 
sharply  finished  as  if  it  had  been  cast  for  the  Place  Ven- 
dome.  Yet  the  length  of  the  shaft  alone  is  480  feet,  and 
it  rises  on  a  plinth  or  pedestal  itself  280  feet  high. 

I  remember  well  the  emotions  of  my  party  as  it  first 
broke  upon  our  view.     Cold  and  sick  as  I  was,  I  brought 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  69 

back  a  sketch  of  it,  which  may  have  interest  for  the  reader, 
though  it  scarcely  suggests  the  imposing  dignity  of  this 
magnificent  landmark.^  Those  who  are  happily  familiar 
with  the  writings  of  Tennyson,  and  have  communed  with 
his  spirit  in  the  solitudes  of  a  wilderness,  will  apprehend 
the  impulse  that  inscribed  the  scene  with  his  name. 

In  the  same  year  (1854)  Rev.  Frederic  D.  Maurice, 
who  had  long  been  an  intimate  friend  of  the  poet  and 
had  stood  godfather  to  his  son  Hallam,  prefixed  the 
following  dedication  to  his  volume  of  'Theological 
Essays  ' :  — 

To  Alfred  Tennyson,  Esq.,  Poet- Laureate. 

My  dear  Sir,  —  I  have  maintained  in  these  Essays 
that  a  theology  which  does  not  correspond  to  the  deepest 
thoughts  and  feelings  of  human  beings  cannot  be  a  true 
theology.  Your  writings  have  taught  me  to  enter  into 
many  of  those  thoughts  and  feelings  Will  you  forgive 
rne  the  presumption  of  offering  you  a  book  which  at  least 
acknowledges  them  and  does  them  homage  ? 

As  the  hopes  which  I  have  expressed  in  this  volume 
are  more  likely  to  be  fulfilled  to  our  children  than  to  our- 
selves, I  might  perhaps  ask  you  to  accept  it  as  a  present 
to  one  of  your  name,  in  whom  you  have  given  me  a  very 
sacred  interest.  Many  years,  I  trust,  will  elapss  before 
he  knows  that  there  are  any  controversies  in  the  world 
into  which  he  has  entered.  Would  to  God  that  in  a  few 
more  he  may  find  that  they  have  ceased  !  At  all  events, 
if  he  should  ever  look  into  these  Essays,  they  may  tell 
him  what  meaning  some  of  the  former  generation  attached 
to  words  which  will  be  familiar  and  dear  to  his  generation, 

1  A  full-page  engraving  from  this  sketch  is  given  in  Dr. 
Kane's  book. 


70  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

and  to  those  that  follow  his,  —  how  there  were  some  who 
longed  that  the  bells  of  our  churches  might  indeed 

Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 
Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir, 

Yours  very  truly  and  gratefully, 

F.  D.  Maurice. 

In  May,  1855,  the  University  of  Oxford  conferred 
the  degree  of  D.  C.  L.  upon  the  Laureate.  It  is  said 
that  '  although  his  colleagues  in  this  honour  were  Sir 
De  Lacy  Evans  and  Sir  John  Burgoyne,  just  returned 
from  their  victorious  exploits  in  the  Crimea,  the  en- 
thusiasm with  which  he  was  received  had  never  been 
surpassed.' 

The  same  year  is  notable  for  the  publication  of 
*  Maud,'  which  was  received  by  the  majority  of  the 
critics  with  even  less  favour  than  '  The  Princess  '  had 
been,  and  on  the  merits  of  which  their  verdicts  are 
still  divided.  That  there  were  certain  obscurities  in 
the  poem  as  first  printed  cannot  be  denied ;  and  the 
additions  and  alterations  made  subsequently  by  the 
author  show  that  he  came  to  see  this  defect,  and  en- 
deavoured to  supply  the  '  missing  links '  in  the  plot. 
The  division  into  three  parts  is  another  obvious  im- 
provement, rendering  the  alternations  of  mood  more 
intelligible.  It  is  amazing  that  so  many  of  the  critics 
failed  to  recognise  the  dramatic  character  of  the  work, 
though   in   the   early   editions   it   was   not   called  a 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  71 

*  monodrama.'  This  putting  a  whole  drama  into  the 
mouth  of  a  single  speaker  was  a  new  form  of  poetry 
which  Tennyson  might  claim  to  have  invented ;  and 
'  Maud '  still  remains  the  sole  example  of  it. 

In  1856  the  second  edition  of  '  Maud  '  appeared, 
with  most  of  the  alterations  to  which  reference  has 
been  made.  Dr.  R.  J.  Mann  also  published  'Ten- 
nyson's "Maud"  Vindicated,'  an  admirable  explana- 
tion and  defence  of  the  poem.  Tennyson,  acknowl- 
edging the  receipt  of  the  pamphlet,  said  :  '  No  one 
with  this  essay  before  him  can  in  future  pretend  to 
misunderstand  my  dramatic  poem  "  Maud."  Your 
commentary  is  as  true  as  it  is  full.'  ^  In  replying  to 
another  gentleman  who  had  sent  him  a  copy  of  a 
favourable  review,  the  poet  wrote  thus  :  — 

I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  sending  me  your  cri- 
tique on  my  poem ;  and  happy  to  find  that  you  approve  of 
it,  and,  unlike  most  of  the  critics  (so-called),  have  taken 
some  pains  to  look  into  it  and  see  what  it  means.  There 
has  been  from  many  quarters  a  torrent  of  abuse  against 
it ;  and  I  have  even  had  insulting  anonymous  letters : 
indeed,  I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  bitter- 
ness of  feeling  which  this  poor  httle  work  of  mine  has 
excited. 

In  1857  the  poet  printed  'Enid  and  Nimue  :  or 
the  True  and  the  False,'  an  Arthurian  poem  of  consid- 
erable length  (139  pages),  but  decided  not  to  pubHsh 

^  Extracts  from  this  and  other  reviews  of  '  Maud '  will  be 
found  in  the  notes  on  the  poem. 


72  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

it.  According  to  Mr.  Shepherd,  a  few  copies  of  it 
'are  said  to  be  still  extant  in  private  hands.' 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  describing  a  visit  to  an  Ex- 
hibition at  Manchester  in  1857,  says:  — 

While  I  was  among  the  Dutch  painters, accosted 

me.  He  told  me  that  the  '  Poet-Laureate '  (as  he  called 
him)  was  in  the  Exhibition  rooms,  and,  as  I  expressed 
great  interest,  was  kind  enough  to  go  in  quest  of  him,  — 
not  for  the  purpose  of  introduction,  however,  for  he  was 

not  acquainted  with  Tennyson.     Soon  Mr. returned, 

and  said  he  had  found  the  Poet-Laureate,  and,  going  into 
the  saloon  of  the  Old  Masters,  we  saw  him  there,  in  com- 
pany with  Mr.  Woolner,  whose  bust  of  him  is  now  in  the 
Exhibition.  .  .  . 

Gazing  at  him  with  all  my  eyes,  I  liked  him  well,  and 
rejoiced  more  in  him  than  in  all  the  wonders  of  the 
Exhibition. 

How  strange  that  in  these  two  or  three  pages  I  cannot 
get  one  single  touch  that  may  call  him  up  hereafter ! 

I  would  gladly  have  seen  more  of  this  one  poet  of  our 
day,  but  forbore  to  follow  him ;  for  I  must  own  that  it 
seemed  mean  to  be  dogging  him  through  the  saloons,  or 
even  to  look  at  him,  since  it  was  to  be  done  stealthily,  if 
at  all. 

He  is  as  un-English  as  possible,  —  indeed,  an  English- 
man of  genius  usually  lacks  the  national  characteristics, 
and  is  great  abnormally. 

Un-English  as  he  was,  Tennyson  had  not,  however,  an 
American  look.  I  cannot  well  describe  the  difference, 
but  there  was  something  more  mellow  in  him,  —  softer, 
sweeter,  broader,  more  simple  than  we  are  apt  to  be. 
Living  apart  from  men  as  he  does  would  hurt  any  one 
of  us  more  than  it  does  him.  I  may  as  well  leave  him 
here,  for  I  cannot  touch  the  central  point. 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON:  73 

Referring  to  this  narrative,  Mr.  James  T.  Fields,  in 
his  *  Yesterdays  with  Authors,'  says  :  — 

It  was  during  one  of  his  rambles  with  Alexander 
Ireland  through  the  Manchester  Exhibition  rooms  that 
Hawthorne  saw  Tennyson  wandering  about.  I  have 
always  thought  it  unfortunate  that  these  two  men  of 
genius  could  not  have  been  introduced  on  that  occasion. 
Hawthorne  was  too  shy  to  seek  an  introduction,  and 
Tennyson  was  not  aware  that  the  American  author  was 
present.  .  .  .  When  I  afterwards  told  Tennyson  that  the 
author  whose  '  Twice-Told  Tales '  he  happened  to  be  then 
reading  at  Farringford  had  met  him  at  Manchester,  but 
did  not  make  himself  known,  the  Laureate  said  in  his 
frank  and  hearty  manner;  'Why  did  n't  he  come  up  and 
let  me  shake  hands  with  him  ?  I  am  sure  I  should  have 
been  glad  to  meet  a  man  like  Hawthorne  anywhere.' 

In  the  *  Life  of  Sydney  Dobell,'  who  had  visited 
the  Isle  of  Wight  for  his  health,  is  a  letter  written  in 
1857  from  which  the  following  is  an  extract :  — 

We  have  had  many  cloudy  days  lately,  but  even  they 
have  been  almost  equally  abnormal  —  soft,  shady  days, 
with  southwest  winds,  as  tender  often  as  spring,  and  with 
thrushes  singing  in  all  the  hedges,  in  a  way  that,  at 
another  season,  would  be  so  exquisite,  but  now  in  the  very- 
death  and  funeral  of  the  year,  is  sad  enough,  because  un- 
natural. I  hardly  think  Tennyson  has  done  well,  as  a 
poet,  in  fixing  his  house  in  such  exceptional  conditions. 
He  lives,  you  know,  about  twenty  miles  from  us  along  the 
same  coast.  The  country  people  are  much  amazed  at  his 
bad  hat  and  unusual  ways,  and  believe  devoutly  that  he 
writes  his  poetry  while  mowing  his  lawn.  However,  they 
hold   him  in  great  respect,   from   a  perception    of   the 


74  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

honour  in  which  he  is  held  by  their  '  betters.'  Our  house- 
wife here  is  a  friend  of  his  servant,  and  she  entertained 
us  with  an  account  of  how  said  servant  had  lately  been 
awed.  Opening  to  a  ring  at  the  door,  when  the  Tenny- 
sons  were  out,  she  saw  a  *  tall,  handsome  gentleman ' 
standing  there,  who,  on  learning  they  were  not  at  home, 
turned  to  go.  'What  message  shall  I  give?'  quoth  the 
maid.     '  Merely  say  Prince  Albert  called.' 

Bayard  Taylor,  in  his  '  At  Home  and  Abroad,'  gives 
the  following  account  of  a  visit  he  made  to  Farring- 
ford  in  this  same  year  :  — 

I  had  so  long  known  the  greatest  of  living  English 
poets,  Alfred  Tennyson,  not  only  through  his  works,  but 
from  the  talk  of  mutual  friends,  that  I  gladly  embraced 
an  opportunity  to  know  him  personally,  which  happened 
to  me  in  June,  1857.  He  was  then  living  at  his  home, 
the  estate  of  Farringford,  near  Freshwater,  in  the  Isle  of 
Wight.  I  should  have  hesitated  to  intrude  upon  his 
retirement,  had  I  not  been  kindly  assured  beforehand 
that  my  visit  would  not  be  unwelcome.  The  drive  across 
the  heart  of  the  island  from  Newport  to  Freshwater  was 
alone  worth  the  journey  from  London.  The  softly  un- 
dulating hills,  the  deep  green  valleys,  the  blue  waters  of 
the  Solent,  and  the  purple  glimpses  of  the  New  Forest 
beyond,  formed  a  fit  vestibule  of  landscape  through 
which  to  approach  a  poet's  house. 

As  we  drew  near  Freshwater,  my  coachman  pointed 
out  Farringford,  a  cheerful  gray  country  mansion,  with  a 
small  thick-grassed  park  before  it,  a  grove  behind,  and 
beyond  all,  the  deep  shoulder  of  the  chalk  downs,  a  gap 
in  which,  at  Freshwater,  showed  the  dark  blue  horizon  of 
the  Channel.  Leaving  my  luggage  at  one  of  the  two 
little  inns,  I  walked  to  the  house  with  lines  from  '  Maud ' 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  75 

chiming  in  my  mind.  'The  dry-tongued  laurel'  shone 
glossily  in  the  sun,  the  cedar  '  sighed  for  Lebanon  '  on 
the  lawn,  and  '  the  liquid  azure  bloom  of  a  crescent  of 
sea '  glimmered  afar. 

I  had  not  been  two  minutes  in  the  drawing-room  be- 
fore Tennyson  walked  in.  So  unlike  are  the  published 
portraits  of  him  that  I  was  almost  in  doubt  as  to  his 
identity.  The  engraved  head  suggests  a  moderate 
stature,  but  he  is  tall  and  broad-shouldered  as  a  son  of 
Anak,  with  hair,  beard,  and  eyes  of  southern  darkness. 
Something  in  the  lofty  brow  and  aquiline  nose  suggests 
Dante,  but  such  a  deep,  mellow  chest-voice  never  could 
have  come  from  Italian  lungs. 

He  proposed  a  walk,  as  the  day  was  wonderfully  clear 
and  beautiful.  We  climbed  the  steep  combe  of  the  chalk 
cliff,  and  slowly  wandered  westward  until  we  reached  the 
Needles,  at  the  extremity  of  the  island,  and  some  three  or 
four  miles  distant  from  his  residence.  During  the  con- 
versation with  which  we  beguiled  the  way,  I  was  struck 
with  the  variety  of  his  knowledge.  Not  a  little  flower  on 
the  downs,  which  the  sheep  had  spared,  escaped  his 
notice,  and  the  geology  of  the  coast,  both  terrestrial  and 
submarine,  was  perfectly  familiar  to  him.  I  thought  of 
a  remark  which  I  once  heard  from  the  lips  of  a  dis- 
tinguished English  author  [Thackeray],  that  Tennyson 
was  the  wisest  man  he  knew,  and  could  well  believe 
that  he  was  sincere  in  making  it. 

I  shall  respect  the  sanctity  of  the  delightful  family 
circle  to  which  I  was  admitted,  and  from  which  I  parted 
the  next  afternoon  with  true  regret.  Suffice  it  to  say  that 
the  poet  is  not  only  fortunate  and  happy  in  his  family 
relations,  but  that,  with  his  large  and  liberal  nature,  his 
sympathies  for  what  is  true  and  noble  in  humanity,  and 
his  depth  and  tenderness  of  feeling,  he  deserves  to  be  so. 


76  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

On  the  occasion  of  the  marriage  of  the  Princess 
Royal  to  Frederick  WiUiam  of  Prussia,  Jan.  25, 
1858,  the  Laureate  wrote  two  additional  stanzas  to 
the  National  Anthem,  '  God  save  the  Queen.'  They 
were  printed  in  the  London  'Times'  of  January  29. 

In  July,  1859,  the  first  instalment  of  the  'Idylls  of 
the  King 'was  published,  —  the  four  poems, '  Enid,' 
*  Vivien,'  '  Elaine,'  and  '  Guinevere,'  as  they  were  then 
entitled.  Ten  thousand  copies  were  sold  in  about  six 
weeks,  and  the  critics  were  almost  unanimous  in  their 
eulogies  of  the  volume.  Among  its  warmest  admirers 
was  Prince  Albert,  who  sent  his  copy  to  the  poet, 
asking  him  to  write  his  name  in  it.  The  note 
continued  :  — 

You  would  thus  add  a  peculiar  interest  to  the  book 
containing  those  beautiful  songs,  from  the  perusal  of 
which  I  derived  the  greatest  enjoyment.  They  quite 
rekindle  the  feeling  with  which  the  legends  of  King 
Arthur  must  have  inspired  the  chivalry  of  old,  whilst  the 
graceful  form  in  which  they  are  presented  blends  those 
feelings  with  the  softer  tone  of  our  present  age. 

In  1862  a  new  edition  of  the  '  Idylls'  appeared, 
with  a  dedication  to  the  memory  of  the  Prince,  who 
died  in  December,   1861. 

It  was  not  until  1869  that  this  '  master- work '  of 
the  poet  was  continued  by  the  publication  of  four 
more  '  Idylls,'  —  '  The  Coming  of  Arthur,'  '  The  Holy 
Grail,'  '  Pelleas  and  Ettarre,'  and  '  The  Passing  of  Ar- 
thur,' in  which  the  '  Morte  d'Arthur '  of  1842  is  incor- 


I 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  77 

porated.  In  1 8  7  2  *  The  Last  Tournament '  (contributed 
to  the  'Contemporary  Review'  for  December,  18 71) 
and  'Gareth  and  Lynette '  appeared;  and  in  1885 
'  Balin  and  Balan,'  the  last  of  the  series,  was  included 
in  '  Tiresias  and  Other  Poems.'  In  the  latest  editions 
of  the  Laureate's  collected  works,  the  poems  are  ar- 
ranged in  '  twelve  books  '  (the  original  '  Enid  '  being 
divided  into  '  The  Marriage  of  Geraint '  and  '  Geraint 
and  Enid ')  and  are  put  in  the  order  in  which  he  in- 
tended they  should  be  read.  In  the  order  ol publica- 
tion the  last  (or  the  portion  of  it  included  in  the 
'Morte  d' Arthur '  of  1842)  was  the  first,  followed  suc- 
cessively by  the  third,  fourth  (these  two,  as  just  ex- 
plained, being  originally  one),  sixth,  seventh,  eleventh 
(as  the  five  were  arranged  in  1859),  first,  eighth,  ninth, 
twelfth  (as  arranged  in  1869,  the  twelfth  being  the 
amplification  of  the  '  Morte  d'Arthur '),  second,  tenth, 
and  fifth.  '  Nave  and  transept,  aisle  after  aisle,  the 
Gothic  minster  has  extended,  until,  with  the  addition 
of  a  cloister  here  and  a  chapel  yonder,  the  structure 
stands  complete.'  Stedman,  from  whom  I  quote  this, 
continues  :  — 

It  has  grown  insensibly,  under  the  hands  of  one  man 
who  has  given  it  the  best  years  of  his  life,  —  but  some- 
what as  Wolf  conceived  the  Homeric  poems  to  have 
grown,  chant  by  chant,  until  the  time  came  for  the  whole 
to  be  welded  together  in  heroic  form.  .  .  .  It  is  the  epic 
of  chivalry,  —  the  Christian  ideal  of  chivalry  which  we 
have  deduced  from  a  barbaric  source,  —  our  conception 


78  THE  LIFE   AND    WORKS 

of  what  knighthood  should  be,  rather  than  what  it  really 
was,  but  so  skilfully  wrought  of  high  imaginings,  fairy 
spells,  fantastic  legends,  and  mediaeval  splendours  that 
the  whole  work,  suffused  with  the  Tennysonian  glamour 
of  golden  mist,  seems  like  a  chronicle  illuminated  by 
saintly  hands,  and  often  blazes  with  light  like  that  which 
flashed  from  the  holy  wizard's  book  when  the  covers  were 
unclasped.  And,  indeed,  if  this  be  not  the  greatest  nar- 
rative poem  since  '  Paradise  Lost,'  what  other  English 
production  are  you  to  name  in  its  place?  Never  so  lofty 
as  the  grander  portions  of  Milton's  epic,  it  is  more  evenly 
sustained  and  has  no  long  prosaic  passages ;  while  '  Para- 
dise Lost '  is  justly  declared  to  be  a  work  of  superhuman 
genius  impoverished  by  dreary  wastes  of  theology. 

The  *  Idylls '  as  completed  form  '  a  great  connected 
poem,  dealing  not  only  with  the  history  and  decadence 
of  the  Round  Table,  but  containing  an  allegorical 
meaning  illustrative  of  the  origin,  the  struggles,  and 
the  passing  of  the  soul  of  man.'  The  late  Dean  Alford, 
one  of  the  poet's  intimate  friends,  set  forth  this  view 
in  the  '  Contemporary  Review  '  for  January,  1870.  The 
'  Idylls '  are  to  be  read  in  the  light  of  a  passage  in 
the  epilogue,  which  describes  the  king  as  shadowing 
the  Soul  in  its  war  with  Sense.  In  this  aspect  they 
deal  with  the  very  highest  interests  of  man.  '  One 
noble  design  warms  and  unites  the  whole.  In  Arthur's 
coming,  his  foundation  of  the  Round  Table,  his  strug- 
gles and  disappointment  and  departure,  we  see  the 
conflict  continually  maintained  between  the  spirit  and 
the  flesh ;  and  in  the  pragmatical  issue  we  recognise 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  79 

the  bearing  down  in  history,  and  in  individual  man, 
of  pure  and  lofty  Christian  purpose  by  the  lusts  of  the 
flesh,  by  the  corruptions  of  superstition,  by  human 
passions  and  selfishness.' 

In  July,  1859,  the  poet  contributed  'The  Grand- 
mother's Apology'  (entitled  'The  Grandmother' 
when  included  in  the  '  Enoch  Arden '  volume  in 
1864)  to  'Once  a  Week,'  where  it  Avas  accompanied 
with  an  illustration  by  Millais,  which,  as  Mr.  Shep- 
herd says,  '  so  beautifully  embodies  the  pathos  of  the 
poem,  and  is  so  inseparably  connected  with  it  in  the 
minds  of  those  who  first  read  it  in  the  magazine, 
that  it  seems  a  pity  the  two  should  ever  have  been 
dissociated.* 

On  the  20th  of  July,  1859,  the  poet  Longfellow 
wrote  in  his  diary  :  '  Finished  the  Four  Idylls.  The 
first  and  third  ['  Enid '  and  *  Elaine ']  could  have 
come  only  from  a  great  poet.  The  second  and  fourth 
['Vivien'  and  'Guinevere']  do  not  seem  to  me  so 
good.'  This  was  apparently  a  hasty  judgment  after 
a  first  reading;  for  later  (August  12)  he  wrote  to 
James  T.  Fields  thus:  'The  "Idylls"  are  a  brilliant 
success,  —  rich  tapestries,  wrought  as  only  Tennyson 
could  have  done  them,  and  worthy  to  hang  beside  "  The 
Faerie  Queene."  I  believe  there  is  no  discordant  voice 
on  this  side  the  water.'  When  '  The  Holy  Grail ' 
appeared  in  1869,  he  wrote  on  Christmas  Eve  to 
Fields  :  '  What  dusky  splendours   of  song  there  are 


8o  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

in  King  Alfred's  new  volume  !  It  is  always  a  de- 
light to  get  anything  from  him.  His  "  Holy  Grail  " 
and  Lowell's  "  Cathedral  "  are  enough  for  a  holiday, 
and  make  this  one  notable.  With  such  '•'  good  works  " 
you  can  go  forward  to  meet  the  New  Year  with  a 
conscience  void  of  reproach.' 

In  August,  1859,  Tennyson  made  a  tour  in  Por- 
tugal with  Francis  Turner  Palgrave,  who  was  then  pre- 
paring his  '  Golden  Treasury  of  English  Songs  and 
Lyrics.'  In  the  dedication  to  the  Laureate,  Mr. 
Palgrave  says :  '  Your  encouragement  .  .  ,  led  me 
to  begin  the  work ;  and  it  has  been  completed  under 
your  advice  and  assistance.' 

The  next  year  (i860)  Tennyson  gave  nothing  to 
the  public  except  *  Sea  Dreams,'  in  '  Macrnillan's 
Magazine  '  for  January,  and  *  Tithonus,'  in  the  '  Corn- 
hill  Magazine '  (then  edited  by  Thackeray)  for  Feb- 
ruary; and  in  1861  only  'The  Sailor  Boy,'  contrib- 
uted to  *  Victoria  Regia,'  —  a  Christmas  volume  of 
miscellanies  by  various  authors,  edited  by  Emily  Faith- 
full.  In  1862,  besides  the  dedication  to  Prince  Albert 
in  the  new  edition  of  the  '  Idylls '  already  mentioned, 
he  wrote  the  'Ode:  May  the  First,  1862,'  sung  at 
the  opening  of  the  International  Exhibition,  and 
printed  in  '  Eraser's  Magazine  '  for  June. 

In  1861,  he  revisited  the  Pyrenees,  where  he  had 
travelled  with  Arthur  Hallam  in  his  early  manhood. 
To  this  he  alludes  in  the  lines  '  In  the  Valley  of  Cau- 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  8 1 

teretz,'  written  at  this  time,  though  not  printed  until 
1864:  — 

All  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flashest  white, 

Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepening  of  the  night. 

All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters  flow, 

I  walk'd  with  one  I  loved  two  and  thirty  years  ago. 

All  along  the  valley,  while  I  walk'd  to-day, 

The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a  mist  that  rolls  away ; 

For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy  rocky  bed. 

Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the  voice  of  the  dead. 

And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and  cave  and  tree. 

The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a  living  voice  to  me. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough  was  in  the  Pyrenees  at  this 
time,  and  writes  in  his  diary  of  meeting  the  Tenny- 
sons  at  Mont  Dore-les-Bains,  Luchon,  and  elsewhere. 
At  Luchon  he  found  them  *  comfortably  established 
in  pleasant  lodgings  out  of  the  town,  in  maize  fields, 
not  far  from  the  river.'  The  Laureate  told  him  that 
* "  CEnone  "  was  written  on  the  inspiration  of  the  Pyre- 
nees, which  stood  for  Ida.'  At  Cauteretz,  September  7, 
Clough  writes  :  '  To-day  is  heavy  brouillard  down  to 
the  feet,  or  at  any  rate  ankles,  of  the  hills,  and  little 
to  be  done.  I  have  been  out  for  a  walk  with  A.  T.  to 
a  sort  of  island  between  two  waterfalls,  with  pines  on 
it,  of  which  he  retained  a  recollection  from  his  visit  of 
thirty-one  years  ago,  and  which,  moreover,  furnished 
a  simile  to  "  The  Princess."  He  is  very  fond  of  this 
place,  evidently.' 

VOL.  I.  —  6 


82  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

The  simile  occurs  in  the  fifth  part  of  'The  Prin- 
cess,' in  the  description  of  Ida  standing 

Unshaken,  clinging  to  her  purpose,  firm 
Tho'  compass'd  by  two  armies  and  the  noise 
Of  arms  ;  and  standing  like  a  stately  pine 
Set  in  a  cataract  on  an  island-crag, 
When  storm  is  on  the  heights,  and  right  and  left 
Suck'd  from  the  dark  heart  of  the  long  hills  roll 
The  torrents,  dash'd  to  the  vale. 

In  1863  the  '  Welcome  to  Alexandra,'  which  Thack- 
eray compared  to  the  waving  of  a  flaring  pine-tree 
torch  on  a  windy  headland,  was  published  on  the  ar- 
rival of  the  Princess  in  England  on  the  7th  of  March; 
and  in  December  the  '  Attempts  at  Classical  Metres 
in  Quantity  '  appeared  in  the  *  Cornhill  Magazine.' 

In  March,  1864,  the  Laureate  contributed  an  '  Epi- 
taph on  the  Late  Duchess  of  Kent '  (the  Queen's 
mother,  who  had  died  on  the  i6th  of  that  month) 
to  the  '  Court  Journal.'  In  August  '  Enoch  Arden 
and  Other  Poems '  was  published.  The  poem  which 
gives  the  title  to  the  volume  is  *  in  its  author's  purest 
idyllic  style ;  noticeable  for  evenness  of  tone,  clear- 
ness of  diction,  successful  description  of  coast  and 
ocean,  —  finally,  for  the  loveliness  and  fidelity  of  its 
genre  scenes.'  ^  George  William  Curtis,  reviewing  it 
in  1864,  remarked:  — 

The  fascinating  fancy  which  Hawthorne  elaborated 
under  the  title  '  Wakefield,'  of  a  man  quietly  withdrawing 

^  Stedman. 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  83 

from  his  home  and  severing  himself  for  many  years  from 
his  family,  yet  stealing  to  the  windows  in  the  darkness  to 
see  wife  and  children  and  the  changes  tim.e  works  in  his 
familiar  circle,  is  reproduced  in  '  Enoch  Arden,'  except 
that  the  separation  is  involuntar}',  and  the  unbetrayed 
looking  in  upon  the  changes  of  years  is  not  a  mere  psycho- 
logical diversion,  but  an  act  of  the  highest  moral  heroism. 
Indeed,  the  tale  is  profoundly  tragical,  and  like  the  last 
Idyll  of  the  King  ['  Guinevere  '],  is  a  rare  tribute  to  the  mas- 
ter-passion of  the  human  heart.  It  is  not  the  most  subtle 
selfishness,  whispers  the  poet ;  it  is  the  perfection  of  self- 
denial.  Xavier  de  Maistre  says  that  the  Fornarina  loved 
her  love  more  than  her  lover.  Not  so  would  Raphael's 
Madonna  have  loved.  Not  so  loved  Enoch  Arden. 
There  is  no  nobler  tale  of  true  love  than  his. 

It  is  told  with  that  consummate  elegance  in  which 
Tennyson  has  no  peer.  The  English  language  has  a 
burnished  beauty  in  his  use  of  it  which  is  marvellous.  In 
his  earlier  verses  it  was  too  dainty,  too  conspicuously  fas- 
tidious, and  the  words  were  chosen  too  much  for  them- 
selves and  their  special  suggestions  and  individual  melody. 
But  his  mastery  of  them  now  is  manly.  It  is  as  striking 
as  Milton's,  although  entirely  different.  There  are  a 
Miltonic  and  a  Tennysonian  blank  verse  in  English  litera- 
ture ;  is  there  any  other  ? 

Mr.  Henry  J.  Jennings  tells  the  following  story  about 
the  poem  :  — 

A  sure  test  of  its  commandingly  human  quality  is  fur- 
nished by  the  fact  that  it  was  on  one  occasion  read  to  an 
audience  of  the  rudest,  most  illiterate  people  of  the 
'  slums  '  of  a  great  provincial  town.  Although  the  reader 
had  no  marked  gifts  of  elocution,  the  touching  character 
of  the  narrative  held  these  poor  folks  in  sobbing  sympathy 


84  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

to  the  very  end,  and  they  understood  it  all,  as  one  might 
have  read  in  the  moisture  of  their  rapt  and  hungering 
eyes.  Lord  Tennyson,  on  being  made  acquainted  with 
this  interesting  circumstance,  in  thanking  his  informant, 
said,  '  If  my  poems  have  indeed  power  for  good  over  the 
people,  it  ought  to  be  matter  of  great  joy  to  me,  and  of 
still  greater  thankfulness.' 

'  Enoch  Arden '  has  been  translated  into  French, 
Italian,  Spanish,  Danish,  Dutch,  and  German  (by 
several  hands)  ;  and  in  1867  a  Latin  version  was 
published  by  Prof.  William  Selwyn. 

'  The  Northern  Farmer,'  in  the  same  volume  with 
'  Enoch  Arden,'  was  the  first  of  the  Lincolnshire 
dialect  poems,  remarkable  alike  for  their  humour  and 
pathos,  which  *  revealed  a  new  power '  in  Tennyson. 

The  command  of  dialect  had  perhaps  the  least  part  in 
this  delightful  surprise.  The  poem  throbs  with  char- 
acter ;  every  pulse  in  every  line  is  the  heart-beat  of  a 
strongly  marked  individuality.  .  .  .  There  are  few  things 
in  the  way  of  word-portraiture  more  lifelike  than  the  pic- 
ture this  self-willed,  opinionated  old-world  farmer  draws 
of  himself.^ 

'  A  Selection  from  the  Works  of  Alfred  Tennyson,' 
published  in  the  series  of  *  Moxon's  Miniature  Poets,' 
in  1865,  contained  six  new  poems  :  'The  Captain;* 
'  On  a  Mourner  ; '  '  Home  they  brought  him  slain  wdth 
spears '  (which,  though  not  printed  till  now,  is  proba- 
bly an  earlier  version  of  the  song  in  *  The  Princess,' 
*  Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead  ')  ;  and  three 
^  Jennings. 


OF  LORD    TENNYSOM.  85 

'Sonnets  to  a  Coquette,'  beginning,  respectively, 
'Caress'd  or  chidden  by  the  dainty  hand,'  'The  form, 
the  form  alone  is  eloquent,'  and  'Wan  Sculptor,  weepest 
thou  to  take  the  cast.'  These  sonnets  are  now  printed 
among  the  '  Juvenilia,'  without  the  original  heading. 

On  the  2ist  of  February,  1865,  the  poet's  mother 
died,  at  the  age  of  eighty-four  years.  She  had  resided 
for  many  years  at  Hampstead  (London)  with  her 
sister.  Miss  Mary  Anne  Fytche. 

Early  in  1865  there  were  rumours  that  the  Queen 
desired  to  confer  some  distinction  upon  the  poet,  and 
the  '  Athenrum '  announced  that  a  baronetcy  had 
been  offered  him  and  accepted.  The  latter  part  of 
the  statement  was  incorrect.  Nine  years  later,  when 
Disraeli  was  premier,  the  baronetcy  was  again  offered 
and  declined. 

In  1867  the  series  of  twelve  songs,  entitled  'The 
Window,  or  the  Loves  of  the  Wrens,'  was  printed 
for  private  circulation  at  the  press  of  Sir  Ivor  Bertie 
Guest,  of  Canford  Manor,  now  Lord  Wimbounie, 
with  this  dedication :  '  These  little  songs,  whose 
almost  sole  merit  —  at  least  till  they  are  wedded 
to  music  —  is  that  they  are  so  excellently  printed, 
I  dedicate  to  the  printer.'  The  note  prefixed  to 
them  when  published  in  1870  informs  us  that  they 
were  written  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Sullivan,  to  be 
set  to  music  by  him. 

*  The    Victim,'    which    had    also    been    privately 


86  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

printed  at  Canford  Manor,  was  contributed  to  '  Good 
Words  '  for  January,  1868.  The  lines  '  On  a  Spiteful 
Letter '  appeared  in  '  Once  a  Week  '  the  same  month  ; 
*  Wages  '  in  '  Macmillan's  Magazine  '  for  February ;  a 
few  lines  entitled  *  1865-1866,'  in  'Good  Words'  for 
March  ;  and  *  Lucretius  '  in  '  Macmillan  '  for  May. 
With  the  exception  of  the  *  1 865-1 866,'  these  are 
now  included  in  the  collected  works  of  the  poet. 

In  the  summer  of  1868  Longfellow  visited  his 
brother  poet  at  Farringford.  In  a  letter  to  Mrs. 
James  T.  Fields,  dated  at  Bonchurch,  July  19,  he 
says  :  '  We  came  last  night  from  Fresl'^water,  where 
we  had  passed  two  happy  days  with  Tennyson,  — 
not  at  his  house,  but  mostly  with  him.  He  was  very 
cordial  and  very  amiable,  and  gave  up  his  whole  time 
to  us.' 
^  In  1869  'The  Holy  Grail  and  Other  Poems'  was 

published,  forty  thousand  copies  of  the  volume  having 
been  ordered  in  advance.  The  same  year  the  poet 
was  elected  an  Honorary  Fellow  of  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge.  The  Fellows  had  previously  subscribed 
for  his  bust  by  Woolner,  which  now  adorns  the  college 
library.  It  may  also  be  noted  that  a  writer  in  '  Temple 
Bar '  for  May  informed  a  deluded  world  that  '  Mr. 
Tennyson  has  no  sound  pretensions  to  be  called  a 
great  poet.' 

In   1867   the    poet   had   purchased  an    estate    on 
Blackdown,  a  moorland  height  rising  above  the  village 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  o? 

of  Haslemere,  in  the  northwestern  corner  of  Sussex, 
some  forty-two  miles  from  London;  and  here  in  1869 
he  built  a  summer  residence  from  the  designs  of  his 
friend,  Mr.  J.  T.  Knowles,  editor  of  the  '  Nineteenth 
Century,'  and  an  excellent  architect  withal.  He 
named  the  place  Aldworth,  after  one  of  the  old 
Sellwood  demesnes.  The  mansion  stands  on  the 
southern  slope  of  the  down,  more  than  eight  hundred 
feet  above  the  sea,  commanding  one  of  the  broadest 
and  most  beautiful  views  in  all  England.  There  is 
an  allusion  to  the  scene  in  the  verses  addressed  to 
General  Hawley :  — 

Our  birches  yellowing  and  from  each 

The  light  leaf  falling  fast, 
While  squirrels  from  our  fiery  beech 

Were  bearing  off  the  mast, 
You  came,  and  look'd  and  loved  the  view 

Long  known  and  loved  by  me, 
Green  Sussex  fading  into  blue 

With  one  gray  glimpse  of  sea. 

It  is  indeed  the  whole  of  'Green  Sussex'  that  lies 
before  one  as  he  looks  from  where  the  Fairlight  Downs 
dip  into  the  Pitt  Level  on  the  left  to  Chichester  on  the 
right.  And  indeed  more  than  Sussex  is  visible :  on  one 
side  no  small  part  of  Kent  can  be  seen ;  and  if  one  half 
turns,  the  noble  eminence  of  Leith  Hill,  and  on  the  other 
Portsmouth  and  the  Hampshire  Downs.  The  '  one  gray 
glimpse  of  sea'  is  where  there  is  an  opening  in  the  South 
Downs  at  Arundel.^ 

^  Church. 


88  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

Mrs.  Ritchie  says  :  — 

Aldworth  was  built  .  .  .  when  Mrs.  Tennyson  had 
been  ordered  change,  and  Freshwater  was  found  to  be 
unbearable  and  overcrowded  during  the  summer  months. 
It  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  to  hospitable  people  there 
are  dangers  from  friendly  inroads  as  well  as  from  the 
attacks  of  enemies.  The  new  house,  where  for  many 
years  past  the  family  has  spent  its  summers,  stands  on 
the  summit  of  a  high  lonely  hill  in  Surrey,  and  yet  it  is 
not  quite  out  of  reach  of  London  life.  It  is  a  white  stone 
house  with  many  broad  windows  facing  a  great  view 
and  a  long  terrace,  like  some  one  of  those  at  Siena  or 
Perugia,  with  a  low  parapet  of  stone,  where  ivies  and 
roses  are  trained,  making  a  foreground  to  the  lovely 
haze  of  the  distance. 

In  the  Isle  of  Wight  the  poet  had  been  greatly 
annoyed  in  summer  by  *  the  vulgar  curiosity  of  mobs 
of  tourists,  who  walked  about  his  grounds,  pointing 
their  telescopes  and  field-glasses  at  him,  even  indeed 
flattening  their  inquisitive  noses  against  his  windows.' 
At  Aldworth,  three  miles  from  a  railway  station  and 
in  a  comparatively  isolated  situation  high  above  the 
surrounding  country,  he  was  quite  safe  from  these 
impudent  intrusions.  Nothing  of  the  house  but  the 
chimney-tops  or  the  gables  and  pinnacles  of  the  upper 
windows  can  be  seen  from  any  point  near  at  hand.  *  A 
belt  of  dense  foliage  and  undergrowth,  hardly  less  im- 
penetrable than  stone  walls,  girdles  it  closely  about ; 
and  from  the  outside  it  is  impossible  to  get  any  idea 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON:  89 

of  the  bright  flower-gardens  and  pleasant  glades  that 

lie  hidden  in  recesses  of  the  hazel  copse.' 

Within  [to  quote  from  a  writer  in  the  London  '  World ' 
who  visited  Aid  worth  in  1875]  everything  is  ordered  with 
a  quiet  refined  elegance  that  has  in  it,  perhaps,  just  a 
soup^ofi  of  an  affectation  of  aestheticism  not  quite  in 
keeping  with  the  spirit  either  of  modern  or  of  mediaeval 
life.  The  hall,  in  spite  of  its  richly  tessellated  pavement, 
has  a  delightful  sense  of  coolness  in  its  soft  half-light. 
The  lofty  rooms  have  broad  high  windows,  the  light  from 
which  is  tempered  by  delicately  coloured  hangings ;  walls 
of  the  negative  tints  in  which  modern  decorators  delight, 
diapered  with  dull  gold ;  and  panelled  ceilings  of  darkly 
stained  wood  with  moulded  ribs  and  beams.  High- 
backed  chairs,  of  ancient  and  uncompromising  stiffness, 
flank  the  table,  typifying  the  poet's  sterner  moods ;  while 
in  cosey  corners  are  comfortable  lounges  that  indicate 
a  tendency  to  yield  sometimes  to  the  soft  seductions 
of  more  effeminate  inspirations.  Nowhere  is  the  spirit 
vexed  by  garish  ornament  or  the  eye  by  glaring  colours. 
A  few  good  etchings  and  paintings  hang  on  the  walls ; 
among  them  an  excellent  copy  of  the  Peter  Martyr,  which 
is  doubly  valuable  since  the  destruction  of  the  original. 
But  there  is  one  room  in  which  all  that  is  most  interesting 
in  this  house  centres.  The  door  opens  noiselessly,  and  the 
tread  of  your  feet  is  muffled  as  you  enter  a  dim  corridor 
divided  from  the  room  by  a  high  screen.  The  air  is  heavy 
with  the  odour  of  an  incense  not  unfamiliar  to  men  of 
letters ;  and  if  you  could  doubt  whence  it  arose,  your 
doubts  would  be  speedily  dissolved  as  the  occupant  of 
the  chamber  comes  forward  to  meet  you,  the  inseparable 
pipe  still  between  his  teeth.  The  figure,  though  slightly 
bent,  bears  the  burden  of  sixty-six  years  lightly;  the 
dark  mass  of  hair  falling  backward  from  the  broad  high 


9©  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

forehead,  and  the  '  knightly  growth  fringing  his  lips,' 
are  but  sparely  streaked  with  silver ;  and  the  face,  though 
rugged  and  deeply  lined  with  thought,  is  full  of  calm  dig- 
nity and  of  a  tenderness  strangely  at  variance  with  his 
somewhat  brusque  tone  and  manner.  .  .  .  Though  the 
poet,  like  most  thinkers,  is  slow  of  speech,  and  given 
to  lapse  into  reverie,  his  powers  of  conversation  are 
considerable.  He  speaks  with  a  full  rolling  Saxon  accent 
that  to  the  over-refined  ears  of  Cockneys  would  probably 
sound  like  provincialism,  but  no  person  could  be  more 
correctly  emphatic  in  pronunciation ;  and  his  ear  is  as 
readily  offended,  if  a  word  be  shorn  of  its  due  power,  as 
a  great  musician's  by  discordant  sounds,  or  a  painter's 
eye  by  false  colouring ;  and  he  does  not  allow  the  forms 
of  society  to  stand  in  the  way  of  giving  very  free  ex- 
pression to  his  annoyance.  .  .  .  His  chief  delight  is  to  sit 
here  in  this  quiet  secluded  study,  surrounded  by  a  few 
choice  books  of  favourite  authors ;  and  when  not  working 
at  the  desk,  by  the  window  that  overlooks  the  pine  glen 
and  the  purple  down  westward,  to  lounge  by  the  larger 
one  that  looks  down  on  the  bright  blossoming  terrace 
over  the  dense  belt  of  beeches  and  hazels,  where  the 
whirring  of  night-jars  sounds  ceaselessly  in  the  twilight, 
away  to  the  gray  lines  of  undulating  hills  and  the  streak 
of  silver  sea.  Whatever  he  is  doing,  the  eternal  pipe  is 
ever  ready  at  hand,  and  a  huge  tobacco-jar,  big  enough 
for  an  ancestral  urn,  on  the  floor  beside  him.  At  other 
times  he  will  wander  down  to  the  zigzag  pathways  that 
meander  in  all  directions  through  the  tall  hazel-twigs 
which  hem  his  house  around,  where  one  comes  suddenly 
on  a  little  secluded  glade  bright  with  mossy  verdure,  or  a 
garden  laden  with  odours  from  a  score  of  pine-trees,  or  a 
bigger  lawn  devoted  to  the  innocent  pursuit  of  croquet  or 
lawn-tennis.  Less  frequently  he  may  be  seen  walking 
through  neighbouring  byways,  and  exciting  the  curiosity 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  91 

of  the  village  folk  by  the  strangeness  of  his  mien  and 
the  eccentricity  of  his  costume. 

Tennyson  published  nothing  during  1870  and  1871 
except  'The  Last  Tournament,'  contributed  to  the 
'  Contemporary  Review  '  for  December  in  the  latter 
year;  but  1872  is  memorable  for  the  appearance  of 
*  Gareth  and  Lynette,  and  Other  Poems.'  It  was  now 
generally  assumed  by  the  critics  that  the  cycle  of  the 
Arthurian  Idylls  was  complete ;  but,  as  we  have  seen, 
another  'book'  was  added  in  1885. 

In  the  '  Library  Edition '  of  the  poet's  complete 
works  (1872-73)  several  poems  previously  suppressed 
were  restored  under  the  head  of  '  Juvenilia ; '  and 
two  early  sonnets,  'Alexander'  and  'The  Bridesmaid,' 
were  published  for  the  first  time.  '  The  Third  of  Feb- 
ruary, 1852  '  (printed  in  the '  Examiner '  that  year)  and 
'Literary  Squabbles'  (the  'Afterthought'  of  'Punch,' 
1846)  were  first  acknowledged  and  included.  Some 
new  passages  in  the  '  Idylls  of  the  King '  and  the  ex- 
ordium '  To  the  Queen '  were  also  added. 

'A  Welcome  to  Marie  AlexandrovTia,  Duchess  of 
Edinburgh,'  printed  in  the  'Times'  early  in  1874, 
and  afterwards  issued  on  a  separate  sheet,  is  now 
included  in  the  collected  works. 

The  '  Cabinet  Edition '  of  the  poems,  issued  in 
1874,  contained  some  additional  matter.  The  stanzas 
entitled  'England  and  America  in  1782,'  the  poem 
in  memory  of  Sir  John  Simeon  ('  In  the  Garden  at 


92  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

Swainston '),  and  *  The  Voice  and  the  Peak '  now  first 
appeared  ;  and  a  new  passage  of  nearly  one  hundred 
and  fifty  lines  was  inserted  in  '  Merlin  and  Vivien  ' 
after  the  opening  paragraph. 

In  1875  the  drama  of  '  Queen  Mary  '  was  pubhshed. 
The  next  year  it  was  produced,  with  some  abridgment 
and  modification,  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre  in  London, 
Miss  Bateman  playing  Mary,  and  Mr.  Irving  the  minor 
part  of  Philip  II.  of  Spain.  The  experiment  con- 
firmed the  opinion  of  the  critics  that  the  work  was 
better  suited  for  the  closet  than  the  stage. 

Late  in  1876  (dated  1877)  the  Laureate  published 
another  drama,  '  Harold,'  which  has  never  been  acted, 
though  it  was  received  with  more  favour  by  the  critics 
than  '  Queen  Mary '  had  been.  Some  were  enthusias- 
tic in  their  praises  of  both,  George  Eliot  declaring 
that  '  Tennyson's  plays  run  Shakespeare's  close.' 

During  1877  Tennyson  contributed  to  the  first 
number  of  the  '  Nineteenth  Century '  (the  name  of 
which  is  said  to  have  been  suggested  by  him)  a  prefa- 
tory sonnet,  with  another  entitled  *  Montenegro ; '  and 
to  subsequent  numbers  a  '  Sonnet  to  Victor  Hugo ' 
and  '  Achilles  over  the  Trench.'  He  also  wrote  the 
*  Lines  on  Sir  John  Franklin '  for  the  cenotaph  in 
Westminster  Abbey. 

The  next  year  (1878)  he  wrote  the  ballad  of 'The 
Revenge  '  for  the  *  Nineteenth  Century.'  When  this 
poem  was  read  to  Carlyle,  he  exclaimed,  '  Eh  !   he  has 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  93 

got  the  grip  of  it ! '  In  the  autumn  Tennyson  made 
a  tour  in  Ireland.  At  Killarney,  as  Mrs.  Ritchie  tells 
us,  he  said  to  the  boatman,  '  When  I  last  was  here  I 
heard  eight  echoes,  and  now  I  only  hear  one.'  The 
man,  who  had  often  heard  people  quoting  the  Bugle 
Song,  replied,  *  Why,  you  must  be  the  gentleman  that 
brought  all  the  money  to  the  place.' 

In  1879,  as  already  stated  (page  45),  'The  Lover's 
Tale  '  was  published ;  and  the  *  Dedicatory  Poem  to 
the  Princess  Alice '  and  *  The  Defence  of  Lucknow ' 
were  contributed  to  the  '  Nineteenth  Century.'  The 
one-act  play  of  '  The  Falcon '  was  brought  out  at  the 
St.  James  Theatre  in  London,  with  Mrs.  Kendal  as  the 
heroine.  It  was  '  a  genuine  success,  and  the  charm 
of  the  dialogue  furnished  an  intellectual  delight  rare 
in  those  days  of  "  brainless  pantomime." ' 

It  was  in  April  of  this  same  year  that  Tennyson 
went  to  see  Irving  as  Hamlet ;  and  Mrs.  Ritchie, 
who  was  present  at  the  same  performance,  refers  to 
the  occasion  thus  :  — 

I  once  heard  Mr.  Tennyson  talking  to  some  actors,  to 
no  less  a  person  indeed  than  to  Hamlet  himself,  for  after 
the  curtain  fell  the  whole  play  seemed  to  flow  from  off 
the  stage  into  the  box  where  we  had  been  sitting,  and  I 
could  scarcely  tell  at  last  where  reality  began  and  Shake- 
speare ended.  The  play  was  over,  and  we  ourselves  seemed 
a  part  of  it  still ;  here  were  the  players,  and  our  own  prince 
poet,  in  that  familiar  simple  voice  we  all  know,  explaining 
the  art,  going  straight  to  the  point  in  his  own  downright 


94  THE   LIFE  AND    WORKS 

fashion,  criticising  with  delicate  appreciation,  by  the  sim- 
ple force  of  truth  and  conviction  carrying  all  before  him. 
'  You  are  a  good  actor  lost,'  one  of  these  real  actors  said 
to  him. 

In  the  spring  of  1880  the  Laureate  was  asked  to 
allow  his  name  to  be  used  as  a  candidate  for  the  Lord 
Rectorship  of  Glasgow  University ;  but  learning  that 
he  was  being  put  forward  as  the  nominee  of  the  Con- 
servative party  among  the  students,  he  declined  the 
candidature.  In  a  letter  addressed  to  the  gentlemen 
who  had  requested  him  to  stand  for  this  honorary 
position,  he  said  :  — 

You  are  probably  aware  that  some  years  ago  the  Glas- 
gow Liberals  asked  me  to  be  their  candidate,  and  that  I, 
in  like  manner,  declined;  yet  I  would  gladly  accept  a 
nomination,  after  what  has  occurred  on  this  occasion,  if 
at  any  time  a  body  of  students,  bearing  no  political  party 
name,  should  wish  to  nominate  me,  or  if  both  the  Liberals 
and  Conservatives  should  happen  to  agree  in  foregoing 
the  excitement  of  a  political  contest,  and  in  desiring  a 
Lord  Rector  who  would  not  appear  for  installation,  and 
who  would,  in  fact,  be  a  mere  roi  fainiant,  with  nothing 
but  the  literary  merits  you  are  good  enough  to  appreciate. 

All  sensible  people  will  approve  Tennyson's  refusal 
to  be  a  political  candidate  for  a  purely  literary  office. 
Nothing,  indeed,  could  well  be  more  ridiculous  than 
the  dragging  of  party  considerations  into  a  university 
election  of  this  character. 

In  the  same  year  (1880)  the  volume  entitled 
'  Ballads  and  Other  Poems '  was  given  to  the  world. 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  95 

It  was  dedicated  to  '  golden-haired  Ally,'  the  poet's 
little  grandson,  Alfred  Tennyson.  He  was  the  son  of 
Mr.  Lionel  Tennyson,  and  was  then  only  a  year  and  a 
half  old.     Mr.  Stedman  pays  a  fitting  tribute  to  the 

*  Ballads '  when,  after  commenting  with  qualified  praise 
upon  the  dramas,  he  goes  on  to  say  :  — 

In  striking  contrast,  Tennyson's  recent  lyrical  poetry  is 
the  afterglow  of  a  still  radiant  genius.  Here  we  see  un- 
dimmed  the  fire  and  beauty  of  his  natural  gift,  and  wisdom 
increased  with  age.  What  a  collection,  short  as  it  is, 
forms  the  volume  of  '  Ballads  '  issued  in  his  seventy-first 
year !  It  opens  with  the  thoroughly  English  story  of 
'  The     First    Quarrel,'    with    its    tragic    culmination,  — 

•  And  the  boat  went  down  that  night,  —  the  boat 
went  down  that  night !  '  Country  life  is  what  he 
has  observed,  and  he  reflects  it  with  truth  of  action 
and  dialect.  '  The  Northern  Cobbler '  and  '  The  Village 
Wife '  could  be  written  only  by  the  idyllist  whose 
Yorkshire  ballads  delighted  us  in  1866.  But  here  are 
greater  things,  two  or  three  at  his  highest  mark.  The 
passion  and  lyrical  might  of  '  Rizpah '  never  have  been 
exceeded  by  the  author,  nor,  I  think,  by  any  other  poet  of 
his  day.  '  The  Revenge  '  and  '  Lucknow  '  are  magnificent 
ballads.  .  .  .  '  The  Voyage  of  Maeldune' is  a  weird  and 
vocal  fantasy,  unequally  poetic,  with  the  well-known 
touch  in  every  number. 

The  book  drew  from  Theodore  Watts  the  following 
sonnet,  *■  To  Alfred  Tennyson,  on  his  publishing,  in 
his  seventy-first  year,  the  most  richly  various  volume 
of  English  verse  that  has  appeared  in  his  own 
century ' :  — 


96  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

Beyond  the  peaks  of  Kdf  a  rivulet  springs 

Whose  magic  waters  to  a  flood  expand, 

Distilling,  for  all  drinkers  on  each  hand. 

The  immortal  sweets  enveil'd  in  mortal  things. 

From  honey'd  flowers,  from  balm  of  zephyr-wings, 

From  fiery  blood  of  gems,^  thro'  all  the  land, 

The  river  draws ;  —  then,  in  one  rainbow-band, 

Ten  leagues  of  nectar  o'er  the  ocean  flings. 

Steep'd  in  the  riches  of  a  poet's  years, 

Stain'd  in  all  colours  of  man's  destiny, 

So,  Tennyson,  thy  widening  river  nears 

The  misty  main,  and,  taking  now  the  sea. 

Makes  rich  and  warm  with  human  smiles  and  tears 

The  ashen  billows  of  Eternity. 

In  January,  1881,  the  play  of*  The  Cup'  was  pro- 
duced at  the  Lyceum  Theatre,  London,  with  Mr. 
Irving  and  Miss  Terry  in  the  leading  roles,  and  had  a 
more  successful  run  than  any  of  the  Laureate's  earlier 
dramas.  In  the  course  of  the  year  he  contributed 
the  dramatic  monologue  '  Despair  '  to  the  '  Nineteenth 
Century/  and  '  The  Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade '  to 
*  Macmillan's  Magazine.' 

In  March,  1882,  the  patriotic  poem,  'Hands  all 
Round,'  written  in  1852  (see  page  63),  revised  by 
the  poet  and  set  to  music  by  Mrs.  Tennyson,  was 
sung  by  Mr.  Santley  at  a  concert  in  London  on  the 
Queen's  birthday.  Certain  good  people,  interested  in 
the  temperance  reform,  were  troubled  at  the    refer- 

1  According  to  a  Mohammedan  tradition,  the  mountains 
of  Kaf  are  entirely  composed  of  gems,  whose  reflected  splen- 
dours colour  the  sky. 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  97 

ences  in  the  song  to  '  drinking  a  health  '  to  England 
and  to  Freedom ;  and  the  Executive  Committee  of  the 
Good  Templars,  forgetful  of  the  service  the  poet  had 
done  their  cause  in  '  The  Northern  Cobbler '  and  of 
the  fact  that  he  had  exerted  his  influence  in  favour  of 
the  movement  to  close  public-houses  on  Sunday  in 
the  Isle  of  Wight,  passed  a  resolution  remonstrating 
against  the  ode  '  in  which  drink  was  used  as  an  ex- 
pression of  loyalty.'  The  Chief  Templar  sent  the 
Laureate  a  copy  of  the  resolution,  the  receipt  of 
which  was  duly  acknowledged  by  Mr.  Hallam  Tenny- 
son as  follows :  — 

My  father  begs  me  to  thank  the  Committee  of  the 
Executive  of  the  Grand  Lodge  of  England  Good  Tem- 
plars for  their  resolution.  No  one  hoaours  more  highly  the 
good  work  done  by  them  than  my  father.  I  must,  how- 
ever, ask  you  to  remember  that  the  common  cup  has  in 
all  ages  been  employed  as  a  sacred  symbol  of  unity,  and 
that  my  father  has  only  used  the  word  '  drink  '  in  refer- 
ence to  this  symbol.  I  much  regret  that  it  should  have 
been  otherwise  understood. 

An  anecdote  told  by  Mrs.  Ritchie  is  not  out  of 
place  here.  She  relates  that  the  poet  was  one  day 
walking  in  Covent  Garden,  when  he  was  stopped  by  a 
rough-looking  man,  who  held  out  his  hand,  and  said  : 
'  You  're  Mr.  Tennyson.  Look  here,  sir,  here  am  I. 
I  've  been  drunk  for  six  days  out  of  the  seven,  but  if 

you  will  shake  me  by  the  hand,  I  'm  d d  if  I  ever 

get  drunk  again.' 

VOL.  I.  —  7 


98  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

In  November,  1882,  another  play  from  the  Laure- 
ate's pen,  'The  Promise  of  May,'  was  performed  at 
the  Globe  Theatre  in  London.  Though  generally 
condemned  by  the  critics,  it  had  a  run  of  six  weeks. 
This  was  partially  due  to  an  incident  of  a  somewhat 
sensational  character  which  occurred  at  one  of  the 
earlier  representations  of  the  play.  At  the  beginning 
of  the  first  scene  the  Marquis  of  Queensberry  rose 
from  his  seat  in  the  stalls,  and  loudly  protested  against 
what  he  regarded  as  Tennyson's  attack  upon  free- 
thinkers in  the  character  of  Edgar.  After  some  delay 
the  performance  was  allowed  to  proceed,  but  at  its 
close  the  Marquis  rose  again,  declaring  himself  a  free- 
thinker, and  denouncing  the  play  as  a  travesty  of  the 
sect.  The  next  day  he  explained  in  a  morning  paper 
that  his  indignation  had  been  particularly  excited  by 
Edgar's  comments  on  marriage.     He  added  :  — 

I  am  a  secularist  and  a  freethinker,  and,  though  I  re- 
pudiate it,  a  so-called  atheist,  and,  as  President  of  the 
British  Secular  Union,  I  protest  against  Mr.  Tennyson's 
abominable  caricature  of  an  individual  whom  [jxV],  I  pre- 
sume, he  would  have  us  believe  represents  some  body  of 
people  which,  thanks  for  the  good  of  humanity,  most  cer- 
tainly does  not  exist  among  freethinkers. 

But,  as  a  writer  in  a  London  journal  remarked  in 
the  course  of  the  controversy  that  followed,  — 

Edgar  is  not,  as  the  critics  will  have  it,  a  freethinker 
drawn  into  crime  by  his  Communistic  theories ;  Edgar  is 
not  a  protest  against  the  atheism  of  the  age ;  Edgar  is 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  99 

not  even  an  honest  Radical  nor  a  sincere  follower  of 
Schopenhauer ;  he  is  nothing  thorough  and  nothing  sin- 
cere; but  he  is  a  criminal,  and  at  the  same  time  a  gentle- 
man. These  are  the  two  sides  of  his  character.  He  has  no 
conscience  until  he  is  brought  face  to  face  with  the  con- 
sequences of  his  crime,  and  in  the  awakening  of  that  con- 
science the  poet  has  manifested  his  fullest  and  sublimest 
strength.  At  our  first  introduction  to  Edgar  we  see  him 
perplexed  with  the  haunting  of  a  pleasure  that  has  sated 
him.  '  Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  we  die '  has 
been  his  motto ;  but  we  can  detect  that  his  appetite  for 
all  pleasure  has  begun  to  pall.  He  repeats  wearily  the 
formulas  of  a  philosophy  which  he  has  followed  because  it 
suits  his  mode  of  life.  He  plays  with  these  formulae,  but 
they  do  not  satisfy  him.  So  long  as  he  had  on  him  the 
zest  of  libertinism  he  did  not  in  all  probability  trouble 
himself  with  philosophy.  But  now  he  begins  to  hanker 
after  his  position  as  a  gentleman,  as  a  member  of  society. 
He  feels  he  has  outlawed  himself.  He  has  no  one  but 
himself  to  look  to.  He  must  endeavour  to  justify  himself 
to  himself.  His  selfishness  compels  him  to  take  a  step  of 
which  he  feels  the  wickedness  and  repugnancy.  The 
companionship  of  the  girl  he  has  ruined  no  longer  gives 
him  pleasure ;  he  hates  her  tears  because  they  remind  him 
of  himself, — his  proper  self.  He  abandons  her  with  a 
pretence  of  satisfaction ;  but  the  philosophical  formulae 
he  repeats  no  more  satisfy  him  than  they  satisfy  this  poor 
girl  whom  he  deserts.  Her  innocence  has  not,  however, 
been  wantonly  sacrificed  by  the  dramatist.  She  has  sown 
the  seed  of  repentance  in  her  seducer,  though  the  fruit  is 
slow  in  ripening.  Years  after,  he  returns  like  the  ghost 
of  a  murderer  to  the  scene  of  his  crime.  He  feels  re- 
morse. He  is  ashamed  of  it ;  he  battles  against  it ;  he 
hurls  the  old  formulas  at  it;  he  acts  the  cynic  more 
thoroughly  than  ever.     But  he  is  changed.     He  feels  a 


lOO  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

desire  to  '  make  amends.'  Yet  that  desire  is  still  only  a 
form  of  selfishness.  He  has  abandoned  the  '  Utopian 
idiocy '  of  Communism,  —  perhaps,  as  he  says  with  the 
self-mockery  that  makes  the  character  so  individual  and 
remarkable,  because  he  has  inherited  estates.  His  posi- 
tion of  gentleman  is  forced  on  his  notice  ;  he  would  qual- 
ify himself  for  it,  selfishly  and  without  doing  excessive 
penance.  To  marry  the  surviving  sister  and  rescue  the 
old  father  from  ruin  would  be  a  meritorious  act.  He  sets 
himself  to  perform  it.  At  first  everything  goes  well  for 
him ;  the  old  weapons  of  fascination  that  had  worked  the 
younger  sister's  ruin  now  conquer  the  heart  of  the  elder. 
He  is  comfortable  in  his  scheme  of  reparation,  and  '  lays 
that  flattering  unction  to  his  soul.'  Suddenly,  however, 
the  girl  whom  he  has  betrayed  and  whom  he  thought 
dead  returns ;  she  hears  him  repeating  to  another  the 
words  of  love  she  herself  had  caught  from  him  and  be- 
lieved. '  Edgar,'  she  cries,  and  staggers  forth  from  her 
concealment,  as  she  forgives  him  with  her  last  breath, 
and  bids  him  make  her  sister  happy.  Then,  and  not  till 
then,  the  true  soul  of  the  man  rushes  to  his  lips ;  he 
recognises  his  wickedness,  he  knows  the  blankness  of  his 
life.  That  is  his  punishment.  He  feels  then  and  will 
always  feel  aspirations  after  good  which  he  can  never  or 
only  imperfectly  fulfil.  The  position  of  independence  on 
which  he  prided  himself  is  wrested  from  him ;  he  is 
humiliated ;  the  instrument  of  his  selfish  repentance  turns 
on  him,  with  a  forgiveness  that  annihilates  him ;  the 
bluff  and  honest  farmer,  whom  he  despises,  triumphs  over 
him,  not  with  the  brute  force  of  an  avenging  hand,  but 
with  the  pre-eminence  of  superior  morality.  Edgar  quits 
the  scene,  never  again,  we  can  well  believe,  to  renew  his 
libertine  existence,  but  to  expiate  with  lifelong  contrition 
the  monstrous  wickedness  of  the  past.  This  is  dramatic 
justice. 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  loi 

Characterisation  so  subtle  was  of  course  beyond  the 
ken  of  the  average  theatre-goer,  and  even  of  the  aver- 
age dramatic  critic.  We  need  not  wonder  that  the 
popular  interest  in  the  play,  when  the  Queensberry 
episode  had  ceased  to  be  a  nine  days'  wonder,  soon 
died  out. 

In  the  autumn  of  1883,  Tennyson  accompanied 
Mr.  Gladstone  on  a  sea  excursion  to  the  northern 
parts  of  the  Continent.  At  Copenhagen  he  was 
invited  by  the  King  of  Denmark  to  meet  the  Czar 
and  Czarina,  the  King  and  Queen  of  Greece,  and  the 
Princess  of  Wales.  The  next  day  the  royal  party 
visited  the  steamer  on  which  the  Laureate  was  a 
passenger,  and  at  their  urgent  request  he  read 
them  some  of  his  poems.  It  is  reported  that  he  was 
enthusiastically  applauded,  '  the  royal  ladies  being 
especially  demonstrative  in  the  expression  of  their 
admiration.' 

During  this  voyage  the  Orkneys  were  visited,  and 
the  Premier  and  the  Laureate  were  presented  with  the 
freedom  of  the  borough  of  Kirkwall.  Mr.  Gladstone, 
in  acknowledging  the  honour,  referred  to  his  eminent 
companion  thus :  — 

I  believe  that  in  this  case  the  honour  is  not  on  one  side 
only,  but  on  both,  and  you  will  do  well  to  associate  your- 
self with  him  as  well  as  ask  him  to  associate  himself  with 
you.  Mr.  Tennyson's  life  and  labours  correspond  in 
point  of  time  as  nearly  as  possible  to  my  own,  but  Mr. 
Tennyson's  exertions   have  been  on  a  higher  plane  of 


I02  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

human  action  than  my  own.  He  has  worked  in  a  higher 
field,  and  his  work  will  be  more  durable.  We  public  men 
who  play  a  part  which  places  us  much  in  view  of  our 
countrymen,  —  we  are  subject  to  the  danger  of  being 
momentarily  intoxicated  by  the  kindness,  the  undue 
homage  of  kindness,  we  may  receive.  It  is  our  business 
to  speak,  but  the  words  which  we  speak  have  wings,  and 
fly  away  and  disappear.  The  work  of  Mr.  Tennyson  is 
of  a  higher  order.  I  anticipate  for  him  the  immortality 
for  which  England  and  Scotland  have  supplied,  in  the 
course  of  their  long  national  life,  many  claims.  Your 
record  to-day  of  the  additions  which  have  been  made  to 
your  municipal  body  may  happen  to  be  examined  in 
distant  times,  and  some  may  ask  with  regard  to  the  Prime 
Minister,  '  Who  was  he,  and  what  did  he  do?  We  know 
nothing  about  him.'  But  the  Poet-Laureate  has  written 
his  own  song  on  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen  that  can 
never  die.  Time  is  powerless  against  him,  and  I  believe 
this,  that  were  the  period  of  inquiry  to  be  so  long  distant 
as  between  this  day  and  the  time  when  Maeshowe^  was 
built,  still,  in  regard  to  the  Poet-Laureate  of  to-day,  there 
would  be  no  difficulty  in  stating  who  he  was  and  what  he 
had  done  to  raise  the  intellects  and  hearts  of  his  fellow- 
creatures  to  a  higher  level,  and  by  so  doing  acquire  a 
deathless  fame- 
In  the  latter  part  of  1883  the  Queen  offered  a 
peerage  to  Tennyson,  and  this  time  he  accepted  the 

1  This  remarkable  tumulus  is  about  nine  miles  from  Kirkwall. 
It  is  a  conical  mound  thirty-five  feet  in  height,  and  one  hundred 
and  twenty  feet  in  diameter  at  the  base.  It  was  opened  in 
1861,  and  was  found  to  be  a  chambered  barrow  of  elaborate 
construction.  Runic  inscriptions  were  found  within,  which  are 
believed  to  be  of  the  twelfth  century ;  but  it  is  supposed  that 
the  building  was  old  and  roofless  when  the  runes  were  inscribed, 
and  really  belongs  to  a  much  earlier  period. 


J 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  1 03 

honour.  He  was  gazetted  Baron  of  Aldworth  and 
Farringford  on  the  i8th  of  the  following  January, 
Among  the  many  congratulatory  letters  he  received 
was  one  from  Susan  Epton,  an  old  woman  who 
had  been  in  the  service  of  his  father  and  afterwards 
lady's  maid  to  Mrs.  Tennyson.  *  I  have  received 
many  letters  of  congratulation,'  the  poet  remarked  in 
a  letter  to  a  friend, '  some  from  great  lords  and  ladies, 
but  the  affectionate  remembrance  of  good  old  Susan 
Epton  and  her  sister  touched  me  more  than  all  these.' 
There  were  those,  however,  who  found  fault  with 
the  Laureate  for  consenting  to  become  Lord  Tennyson. 
'  Not  only  could  no  fame  accrue  to  him  from  a  title, 
but  it  was  urged  that,  by  taking  one,  he  was  scarcely 
true  to  his  own  ideals,  —  at  all  events,  that  he  did  not 
rise  to  the  height  of  his  own  inspiration.'  I  know  of 
no  better  answer  to  this  than  has  been  made  by  an 
American  and  a  republican.     Mr.  Stedman  says : 

When  the  Laureate  was  raised  to  the  peerage  —  a  station 
which  he  twice  declined  in  middle  life  —  he  gained  some 
attention  from  the  satirists,  and  his  acceptance  of  rank 
no  doubt  was  honestly  bemoaned  by  many  sturdy  radicals. 
It  is  difficult,  nevertheless,  to  find  any  violation  of  principle 
or  taste  in  the  acceptance  by  England's  favourite  and  of- 
ficial poet  of  such  an  honour,  bestowed  at  the  climax  of 
his  years  and  fame.  Republicans  should  bear  in  mind 
that  the  republic  of  letters  is  the  only  one  to  which  Alfred 
Tennyson  owed  allegiance  ;  that  he  was  the  '  first  citizen  ' 
of  an  ancient  monarchy,  which  honoured  letters  by  grate- 
fully conferring  upon  him  its  high  traditional  award.     It 


104  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

would  be  truckling  for  an  American,  loyal  to  his  own  form 
of  government,  to  receive  an  aristocratic  title  from  some 
foreign  potentate.  Longfellow,  for  example,  promptly 
declined  an  order  tendered  him  by  the  King  of  Italy.  But 
a  sense  of  fitness,  and  even  patriotism,  should  make  it 
easy  for  an  Englishman,  faithful  to  a  constitutional 
monarchy,  to  accept  any  well-earned  dignity  under  that 
system.  In  every  country  it  is  thought  worth  while  for 
one  to  be  the  founder  of  his  family ;  and  in  Great  Britain 
no  able  man  could  do  more  for  descendants,  to  whom  he 
is  not  sure  of  bequeathing  his  talents,  than  by  handing 
down  a  class-privilege,  even  though  it  confers  no  additional 
glory  upon  the  original  winner.  Extreme  British  demo- 
crats, who  openly  or  covertly  wish  to  change  the  form 
of  government,  and  even  communists,  are  aware  that 
Tennyson  does  not  belong  to  their  ranks.  He  has  been  a 
liberal  conservative,  —  liberal  .n  humanity  and  progressive 
thought,  strictly  conservative  in  allegiance  to  the  national 
system.  As  for  that,  touch  but  the  territory,  imperil  the 
institutions  of  Great  Britain,  and  Swinburne  himself  — 
the  pupil  of  Landor,  Mazzini,  and  Hugo — betrays  the 
blood  in  his  veins.  Tennyson,  a  liberal  of  the  Maurice 
group,  has  been  cleverly  styled  by  Whitman  a  '  poet  of 
feudalism  ;  '  he  is  a  celebrator  of  the  past,  of  sovereignty 
and  knighthood  ;  he  is  no  lost  leader,  *  just  for  a  ribbon ' 
leaving  some  gallant  cause  forsworn  or  any  song  unsung. 
In  all  fairness,  his  acceptance  of  rank  savours  less  of  in- 
consistency than  does  the  logic  of  those  who  rail  at  the 
world  for  neglect  of  genius,  and  then  upbraid  them  both 
for  coming  to  an  understanding. 

In  the  latter  part  of  1884  the  poet  published 
'  Becket,'  the  longest  of  his  dramas,  completing  '  the 
historic  trilogy.'     In  the  dedication  to  the  Earl  of  Sel- 


OF  LORD   TENNYSON:  1 05 

borne,  the  author  states  that  the  play  is  *  not  intended 
in  its  present  form  to  meet  the  exigencies  of  our 
modem  theatre,'  and  no  attempt  has  been  made  to 
put  it  on  the  stage.''  Like  its  predecessors  in  the 
historical  series,  it  is  a  drama  for  the  reader  and  the 
student  rather  than  the  actor  and  the  play-goer.  Mr. 
J.  R.  Green,  the  historian,  says  that  '  all  his  re- 
searches into  the  annals  of  the  twelfth  century  had 
not  given  him  so  vivid  a  conception  of  the  character 
of  Henry  II.  and  his  court  as  was  embodied  in 
Tennyson's  "  Becket ;  "  '  and  Rev.  Dr.  Van  Dyke  re- 
marks that,  'backed  by  an  authority  like  this,  it  is 
not  too  daring  to  predict  that  the  day  is  coming  when 
the  study  of  Shakespeare's  historical  plays  will  be 
reckoned  no  more  important  to  an  understanding  of 
English  history  than  the  study  of  Tennyson's  Trilogy.' 

Other  noteworthy  events  in  the  biographical  rec- 
ord for  1884  were  the  Laureate's  election  to  the  presi- 
dency of  the  Incorporated  Society  of  Authors,  and 
the  marriage  of  his  eldest  son  Hallam. 

In  1885  '  Tiresias  and  Other  Poems  '  was  published, 
—  a  volume  as  remarkable  in  some  respects   as  the 

*  Ballads '  of  five  years  before.     *  The   Wreck  '  and 

*  Despair '  were  full  of  power ;  and  '  To-morrow  '  and 

'The  Spinster's  Sweet- 'arts  '  were  no\vise  inferior  to 

^  Since  this  was  written,  *  Becket,'  somewhat  condensed  and 
modified  for  presentation  on  the  stage,  has  been  brought  out 
by  Mr.  Irving  at  the  Lyceum  Theatre  in  London  and  also  in 
this  country.     See  note  on  page  322  below. 


io6 


THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 


the  earlier  poems  in  dialect.  *  Balin  and  Balan,'  as  al- 
ready stated,  concluded  the  series  of  Arthurian  Idylls. 
The  dedication  of  the  volume  was  as  follows  :  — 


I 


TO    MY   GOOD   FRIEND 

ROBERT     BROWNING 

WHOSE  GENIUS  AND  GENIALITY 

WILL   BEST  APPRECIATE   WHAT   MAY   BE   BEST 

AND   MAKE   MOST  ALLOWANCE   FOR   WHAT   MAY   BE   WORST 

THIS   VOLUME 

IS 

AFFECTIONATELY   DEDICATED. 

During  the  same  year,  *  The  Fleet '  was  contributed 
to  the  'Times'  (April  23),  'To  H.  R.  H.  Princess 
Beatrice  '  to  the  same  journal  (July  23),  and '  Vastness ' 
to  '  Macmillan's  Magazine  '  for  November. 

In  1886  'Locksley  Hall,  Sixty  Years  After,'  ap- 
peared, —  forty-four  years  after  the  first  '  Locksley 
Hall '  electrified  the  literary  world.  Naturally  the 
later  poem  was  compared  with  the  earlier,  and  by 
many  critics  was  pronounced  the  inferior  of  the  two. 
They  not  only  did  no  justice  to  it,  but,  as  Mr.  R.  H. 
Hutton  intimated  in  his  masterly  review  in  the  '  Spec- 
tator '  (December  18),  it  seemed  doubtful  whether 
they  had  carefully  read  it.    He  adds :  — 

We  venture  to  say  that  it  is  at  least  as  fine  a  picture  of 
age  reviewing  the  phenomena  of  life,  and  reviewing  them 
with  an  insight  impossible  to  youth  into  all  that  threatens 
man  with  defeat  and  degradation,  though  of  course  without 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  107 

any  of  that  irrepressible  elasticity  of  feeling  which  shows 
even  by  the  very  wildness  and  tumult  of  its  despair  that 
despair  is,  for  it,  ultimately  impossible,  as  Tennyson's 
earlier  poem  was  of  youth  passionately  resenting  the 
failure  of  its  first  bright  hope,  and  yet  utterly  unable  to 
repress  the  '  promise  and  potency  '  of  its  buoyant  vitality. 
The  difference  between  the  '  Locksley  Hall '  of  Tennyson's 
early  poems  and  the  '  Locksley  Hall '  of  his  latest  is  this, 
—  that  in  the  former  all  the  melancholy  is  attributed  to 
personal  grief,  while  all  the  sanguine  visionariness  which 
really  springs  out  of  overflowing  vitality  justifies  itself  by 
dwelling  on  the  cumulative  resources  of  science  and  the 
arts;  in  the  latter,  the  melancholy  in  the  man,  a  result 
of  ebbing  vitality,  justifies  itself  by  the  failure  of  knowl- 
edge and  science  to  cope  with  the  moral  horrors  which 
experience  has  brought  to  light,  while  the  set-off  against 
that  melancholy  is  to  be  found  in  a  real  personal  experi- 
ence of  true  nobility  in  man  and  woman.  Hence  those 
who  call  the  new  '  Locksley  Hall '  pessimist  seem  to  us 
to  do  injustice  to  that  fine  poem.  No  one  can  expect  age 
to  be  full  of  the  irrepressible  buoyancy  of  youth.  Now 
Tennyson's  poem  shows  us  these  happier  aspects  of  age, 
though  it  shows  us  also  that  exaggerated  despondency  in 
counting  up  the  moral  evils  of  life  which  is  one  of  the 
consequences  of  dwindling  vitality.  Nothing  could  well 
be  finer  than  Tennyson's  picture  of  the  despair  which  his 
hero  would  feel  if  he  had  nothing  but '  evolution  '  to  depend 
on,  or  than  the  rebuke  which  the  speaker  himself  gives  to 
that  despondency  when  he  remembers  how  much  more 
than  evolution  there  is  to  depend  on,  —  how  surely  that 
has  been  already  '  evolved '  in  the  heart  of  man  which, 
itself  inexplicable,  yet  promises  an  evolution  far  richer 
and  more  boundless  than  is  suggested  by  any  physical 
law.  The  final  upshot  of  the  swaying  tides  of  progress 
and  retrogression,  in  their  periodic  advance  and  retreat,  is, 


lo8  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

he  tells  us,  quite  incalculable  by  us,  the  complexity  of  the 
forward  and  backward  movements  of  the  wave  being 
beyond  our  grasp ;  and  yet  he  is  sure  that  there  is  that 
in  us  which  supplies  an  ultimate  solution  of  the  riddle. 
...  On  the  whole,  we  have  here  the  natural  pessimism 
of  age  in  all  its  melancholy,  alternating  with  that  highest 
mood  like  '  old  experience,'  which,  in  Milton's  phrase, 
'  doth  attain  to  something  like  prophetic  strain.'  The 
various  eddies  caused  by  these  positive  and  negative 
currents  seem  to  us  delineated  with  at  least  as  firm  a 
hand  as  that  which  painted  the  tumultuous  ebb  and  flow 
of  angry  despair  and  angrier  hope  in  the  bosom  of  the 
deceived  and  resentful  lover  of  sixty  years  since.  The 
later  '  Locksley  Hall '  is  in  the  highest  sense  worthy  of 
its  predecessor. 

And  so,  it  seems  to  me,  it  must  appear  to  every  one 
who  reads  it  aright. 

In  1887  Mr.  Hallam  Tennyson  published  'Jack 
and  the  Bean-Stalk,'  a  version  of  the  familiar  old 
child's  tale  in  mock-heroic  hexameters  which  are 
particularly  good  examples  of  that  classic  measure  in 
English.  I  happen  to  know  that  Lord  Tennyson 
regarded  them  as  quite  faultless  in  their  way.  The 
illustrations  of  the  book  are  from  unfinished  sketches 
by  Randolph  Caldecott. 

On  the  20th  of  April  in  the  same  year  (1886), 
the  poet's  younger  son,  Lionel,  died  on  the  voyage 
home  from  India.  Reference  has  already  been  made 
(page  65)  to  the  monument  erected  to  his  memory  in 
Freshwater  church.  A  tribute  more  enduring  than 
brass  or  marble,   and  more   beautiful  than    sculptor 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  109 

could  carve,  is  built  in  lofty  and  tender  rhyme  in  his 
father's  lines  addressed  to  the  Marquis  of  Dufferin 
and  Ava,  which  are  the  dedication  of  *  Demeter  and 
Other  Poems,'  published  in  1889. 

The  appearance  of  that  volume  is  the  next  note- 
worthy event  in  the  biography  of  the  Laureate.  It  is 
said  that  twenty  thousand  copies  were  sold  within  a 
week  after  it  came  out.  As  the  work  of  an  octogena- 
rian it  was  every  way  remarkable.  A  writer  in  the 
*  Critic  '  (New  York)  well  says  of  it :  — 

The  Laureate  has  been  spared  the  touch  of  senility 
which  so  often  comes  to  the  poets  who  survive  to  write  at 
the  age  of  fourscore ;  there  is  no  indication  or  hint  of  any 
loss  of  mental  vigour,  no  sign  of  weariness  of  the  world, 
and  no  token  of  physical  infirmity  :  on  the  contrary,  the 
poems  in  this  volume  are  full  of  strength  ;  and  the  glow 
of  beauty,  the  breadth  of  vision,  and  the  rare  inspiration 
which  have  always  been  conspicuously  characteristic  feat- 
ures of  his  work,  are  here  to  be  found  undiminished. 
We  should  have  to  go  back  many  years  —  and  many  vol- 
umes —  to  find  one  of  Tennyson's  books  that  is  in  all  re- 
spects so  satisfactory  and  enjoyable  :  from  the  first  poem 
to  the  last  there  is  an  evenness  of  excellence  in  the  work- 
manship, a  clearness  of  expression,  and  above  all  a  high- 
heartedness  and  content  which  are  emblematic  of  a  happy, 
peaceful,  and  thoughtful  life,  —  a  hf e  which  enables  the 
poet  to  look  forward  with  these  words,  — 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell 

\Vhen  I  embark : 


no  THE  LIFE   AND    WORKS 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 

Several  of  the  poems  are  written  to  personal  friends, 
and  one  of  the  longest  as  well  as  most  delightful  —  '  The 
Ring'  —  is  inscribed  to  Mr.  Lowell.  The  poem  which 
gives  its  title  to  the  book  is  addressed  to  Professor  Jebb, 
the  eminent  Greek  scholar,  of  whom  the  poet  writes  :  — 

Fair  things  are  slow  to  fade  away, 
Bear  witness  you,  that  yesterday 

From  out  the  Ghost  of  Pindar  in  you 
Roll'd  an  Olympian.  .  .  . 

In  '  Demeter  and  Persephone  '  one  renews  the  old-time 
pleasure  found  in  '  CEnone  and  Ulysses,'  —  blank  verse 
musical  and  everywhere  beautiful  such  as  only  Tennyson 
has  written.  .  .  .  The  two  poems  which  have  for  us  the 
greatest  charm  are  '  Merlin  and  the  Gleam '  and  '  The 
Progress  of  Spring.'  In  its  manner  the  latter  reminds 
one  of  the  exquisitely  wrought  odes  of  Keats. 

Dr.  Van  Dyke  regards  '  Merlin  and  the  Gleam ' 
as  'the  most  important,  and  in  some  respects  the 
most  beautiful,'  of  Tennyson's  art-poems,  —  a  group 
remarkable  '  for  the  light  which  they  throw  upon  his 
artistic  principles  and  tastes.'     He  adds  :  — 

The  wonder  is  that  none  of  the  critics  seem  to  have 
recognised  it  for  what  it  really  is,  —  the  poet's  own  de- 
scription of  his  life-work,  and  his  clear  confession  of  faith 
as  an  idealist. 


OF  LORD    TEJSINYSON.  m 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  Poet's  dream,  — 

this  is  the  'Gleam'  that  Tennyson  has  followed.  It 
glanced  first  on  the  world  of  fancy  with  its  melodies  and 
pictures,  dancing  fairies  and  falling  torrents.  Then  it 
touched  the  world  of  humanity ;  and  the  stories  of  man's 
toil  and  conflict,  the  faces  of  human  love  and  heroism, 
were  revealed.  Then  it  illuminated  the  world  of  imagina- 
tion ;  and  the  great  epic  of  Arthur  was  disclosed  to  the 
poet's  vision  in  its  spiritual  meaning,  the  crowning  of  the 
blameless  king.  Then  it  passed  through  the  valley  of 
the  shadow  of  death,  and  clothed  it  with  light :  — 

And  broader  and  brighter 

The  Gleam  flying  onward, 

Wed  to  the  melody, 

Sang  thro'  the  world  ; 

And  slower  and  fainter, 

Old  and  weary. 

But  eager  to  follow, 

I  saw,  whenever 

In  passing  it  glanced  upon 

Hamlet  or  city. 

That  under  the  Crosses 

The  dead  men's  garden, 

The  mortal  hillock 

Would  break  into  blossom  ; 

And  so  to  the  land's 

Last  limit  I  came  — 

And  can  no  longer. 

But  die  rejoicing. 

For  thro'  the  Magic 

Of  Him  the  Mighty, 

Who  taught  me  in  childhood, 

There  on  the  border 

Of  boundless  Ocean, 


112  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

And  all  but  in  Heaven 
Hovers  The  Gleam. 

Not  of  the  sunlight, 
Not  of  the  moonlight, 
^  Not  of  the  starlight ! 

O  young  Mariner, 
Down  to  the  haven, 
Call  your  companions. 
Launch  your  vessel, 
And  crowd  your  canvas. 
And,  ere  it  vanishes 
Over  the  margin. 
After  it,  follow  it. 
Follow  '  The  Gleam.* 

That  is  the  confession  of  a  poet's  faith  in  the  Ideal.  It 
is  the  cry  of  a  prophet  to  the  younger  singers  of  a  faithless 
and  irresolute  generation. 

If  *  Crossing  the  Bar,'  which  formed  the  epilogue  to 
this  volume,  had  proved,  as  some  of  us  feared  it  might 
be,  the  '  Swan  Song '  of  the  venerable  poet,  it  could 
not  have  been  sweeter  or  nobler.  In  the  words  of 
the  critic  whom  I  have  just  quoted,  it  is  '  perfect  poetry, 
—  simple  even  to  the  verge  of  austerity,  yet  rich  with 
the  suggestions  of  wide  ocean  and  waning  light  and 
vesper  bells ;  easy  to  understand  and  full  of  music, 
yet  opening  inward  to  a  truth  which  has  no  words, 
and  pointing  onward  to  a  vision  which  transcends  all 
forms ;  it  is  a  delight  and  a  consolation,  a  song  for 
mortal  ears,  and  a  prelude  to  the  larger  music  of 
immortality.' 

The  Laureate's  eightieth  birthday,   Aug.  6,  1889, 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  1 13 

called  forth  many  apt  tributes  both  in  prose  and  verse. 
From  the  latter  I  may  quote  here  Mr.  Theodore  Watts's 
sonnet  in  the  'Athenaeum'  of  August  10  :  — 

THE   EIGHTIETH    BIRTHDAY. 

Another  birthday  breaks ;  he  is  with  us  still. 
There,  thro'  the  branches  of  the  glittering  trees, 
The  birthday  sun  gilds  grass  and  flower ;  the  breeze 
Sends  forth,  methinks,  a  thrill,  —  a  conscious  thrill 
That  tells  yon  meadows  by  the  steaming  rill  — 
Where,  o'er  the  clover  waiting  for  the  bees, 
The  mist  shines  round  the  cattle  to  their  knees  — 
Another  birthday  breaks ;   he  is  with  us  still. 
For  Nature  loves  him,  —  loves  our  Tennyson : 
I  think  of  heathery  Aldworth,  rich  and  rife 
With  greetings  of  a  world  his  song  hath  won ; 
I  see  him  there  with  loving  son  and  wife, 
His  fourscore  years  a  golden  orb  of  life : 
My  proud  heart  swells  to  think  what  he  hath  done. 

August  6,  at  sunrise. 

Rev.  H.  D.  Rawnsley  sent  the  following  sonnet  to 
'  Macmillan's  Magazine  '  for  September,  1889  :  — 

TO    LORD   TENNYSON. 

The  fourscore  years  that  blanch  the  heads  of  men 
Touch  not  immortals,  and  we  bring  to-day 
No  flowers  to  twine  with  laurel  and  with  bay, 
Seeing  the  spring  is  with  thee  now,  as  when 
Above  the  wold  and  marsh  and  mellowing  fen 
Thy  song  bade  England  listen.     Powers  decay, 
Hands  fail,  eyes  dim,  tongues  scarce  their  will  can  say, 
VOL.  I.  —  8 


114  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

But  still  Heaven's  fire  burns  bright  within  thy  pen. 

O  singer  of  the  knightly  days  of  old ! 

O  ringer  of  the  knell  to  lust  and  hate ! 

O  bringer  of  new  hope  from  memory's  shrine ! 

When  God  hath  set  in  Heaven  thy  harp  of  gold, 

The  souls  that  made  this  generation  great 

Shall  own  the  voice  that  help'd  their  hearts  was  thine. 

In  1890  a  portrait  of  the  Laureate,  in  his  robes  as 
D.  C.  L,,  by  Mr.  G.  F.  Watts,  was  given  to  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge. 

The  following  stanzas  are  from  a  poem  by  Mr. 
Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  which  appeared  in  the  'At- 
lantic Monthly'  for  March,   1890:  — 

TENNYSON. 

Shakespeare  and  Milton  —  what  third  blazon'd  name 

Shall  lips  of  after  ages  link  to  these  ? 

His  who,  beside  the  wide-encircling  seas, 
Was  England's  voice,  her  voice  with  one  acclaim, 
For  threescore  years ;  whose  word  of  praise  was  fame, 

Whose  scorn  gave  pause  to  man's  iniquities. 

What  strain  was  his  in  that  Crimean  war? 
A  bugle-call  in  battle;   a  low  breath. 
Plaintive  and  sweet,  above  the  fields  of  death ! 
So  year  by  year  the  music  roll'd  afar, 
From  Euxine  waves  to  flowery  Kandahar, 
Bearing  the  laurel  or  the  cypress  wreath. 

Others  shall  have  their  little  space  of  time, 
Their  proper  niche  and  bust,  then  fade  away 
Into  the  darkness,  poets  of  a  day; 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  115 

But  thou,  O  builder  of  enduring  rhyme, 
Thou  shalt  not  pass !   Thy  fame  in  every  clime 
On  earth  shall  live  where  Saxon  speech  has  sway. 

In  1 89 1  the  poet  published  nothing  except  '  A  Song,' 
contributed  to  the  '  New  Review  '  for  March.  It  was 
generally  known  in  the  latter  part  of  the  year  that  he 
was  finishing  another  play  on  which  he  had  been  en- 
gaged for  some  time  ;  and  early  in  1892  this  was  pro- 
duced in  New  York  by  Mr.  Augustin  Daly,  and  soon 
afterwards  published  under  the  title  of  '  The  Forest- 
ers, Robin  Hood  and  Maid  Marian.' 

Its  success  on  the  stage  in  New  York,  and  later  in 
Boston,  was  of  no  doubtful  character  \  and  the  verdict 
of  our  best  dramatic  critics  was  decidedly  in  its  favour. 
Mr.  William  Winter,  in  the  New  York  *  Tribune,'  re- 
ferred to  it  as  follows  :  — 

The  realm  into  which  this  play  allures  its  auditor  is  the 
realm  of  '  Ivanhoe,' — the  far-off,  romantic  region  of 
Sherwood  Forest,  in  the  ancient  days  of  stout  King 
Richard  the  First.  It  is  not  the  England  of  the  mine  and 
the  workshop  that  he  represents,  and  neither  is  it  the 
England  of  the  trim  villa  and  the  formal  landscape ;  it  is 
the  England  of  the  feudal  times,  — of  gray  castle  towers 
and  armoured  knights,  and  fat  priests  and  wandering  min- 
strels, and  crusades  and  tournaments.  To  enter  into  that 
realm  is  to  leave  the  barren  world  of  prose  ;  to  feel  again 
the  cool,  sweet  winds  of  summer  upon  the  brow  of  youth ; 
to  catch,  in  fitful  glimpses,  the  shimmer  of  the  Lincoln 
green  in  the  sunlit,  golden  glades  of  the  forest,  and  to 
hear  the  merry  note  of  the  huntsman  commingled,  far 
away,  with  'horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing.' 


Il6  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

For  once  the  public  is  favoured  with  a  serious  poetical 
play,  which  aims  simply  to  diffuse  happiness  by  arousing 
sympathy  with  pleasurable  scenes  and  picturesque  persons, 
with  virtue  that  is  piquant  and  humour  that  is  refined. 
The  play  is  pastoral  comedy,  written  partly  in  blank  verse 
and  partly  in  prose,  and  cast  almost  wholly  out  of  doors, 
—  in  the  open  air  and  under  the  greenwood  tree,  —  and,  in 
order  to  stamp  its  character  beyond  doubt  or  question, 
one  scene  of  it  is  frankly  devoted  to  a  convocation  of 
fairies  around  Titania,  their  queen. 

'  Robin  Hood  '  as  a  technical  drama  is  frail.  Its 
movement,  indeed,  is  not  more  indolent  than  that  of  its 
lovely  prototypes  in  Shakespeare,  —  '  As  You  Like  It '  and 
'A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.'  With  all  the  pastorals 
Time  ambles.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  Tennyson's  piece 
is  not  a  match  for  either  of  those  Shakespearian  works,  in 
massiveness  of  dramatic  signification  or  in  the  element  of 
opportunity  for  the  art  of  acting.  Its  charm  resides  more 
in  being  than  in  doing,  and  therefore  it  is  more  a  poem 
than  a  play,  and  perhaps  more  a  picture  than  a  poem.  It 
is  not  one  of  those  works  that  arouse,  agitate,  and  impel. 
It  aims  only  to  create  and  sustain  a  pleased  condition ;  and 
that  aim  it  has  accomplished.  No  spectator  will  be  deeply 
moved  by  it,  but  no  spectator  will  look  at  it  without  delight. 
While,  however,  '  Robin  Hood  '  as  a  drama  is  frail,  it  is 
by  no  means  destitute  of  the  dramatic  element.  It  depicts 
a  central  character  in  action,  and  it  tells  a  representative 
love-story,  —  a  story  in  which  the  oppressive  persecutor  of 
impoverished  age  is  foiled  and  discomfited,  in  which  faith- 
ful affection  survives  the  test  of  trial,  and  in  which  days 
of  danger  end  at  last  in  days  of  bHssful  peace.  .  .  . 

The  characters  were  creatures  of  flesh  and  blood  to  the 
author,  and  they  come  out  boldly;  therefore  Marian  Lea 
is  a  woman  of  the  Rosalind  order,  —  handsome,  noble, 
magnanimous,  unconventional,  passionate  in  nature,  but 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON. 


117 


sufficient  unto  herself,  humorous,  playful,  and  radiant 
with  animal  spirits.  The  chief  exaction  of  the  part  is 
simplicity,  which  yet  must  not  be  allowed  to  degenerate 
into  tameness.  The  sweet  affection  of  a  daughter  for  her 
father,  the  coyness  yet  the  allurement  of  a  girl  for  her 
lover,  the  refinement  of  high  birth,  the  lithe  bearing  and 
free  demeanour  of  a  child  of  the  woods,  and  the  pre- 
dominant dignity  of  purity  and  honour,  —  these  are  the 
salient  attributes  of  the  part.  The  success  of  the  comedy 
is  largely  dependent  upon  the  enchantment  that  is  dif- 
fused by  Marian;  yet  the  burden  of  the  acting  is  laid 
upon  Robin.  The  character  is  a  crystal  of  manliness, 
chivalry,  and  sentiment.  Robin  is  brave,  bluff,  impetuous, 
humorous,  ardent  in  his  feelings,  yet  not  inapt  to  muse 
and  moralise,  devoted  to  liberty,  humane,  affectionate,  a 
faithful  friend  and  a  fearless  foe. 

In  a  kindred  vein  the  '  Athenaeum  '  aptly  calls  '  The 
Foresters  '  a  '  picture-play,'  —  that  is,  '  one  in  which 
the  characters  themselves,  although  sufficiently  deline- 
ated to  become  individualised,  are  really  part  of  the 
scene,  and  could  hardly  exist,  and  could  hardly  have 
a  right  of  existence,  apart  from  the  scene.'  If  we  do 
not  recognise  the  fact  that  *  The  Foresters '  is  a  work 
of  this  special  kind,  we  are  liable  to  misjudge  it. 
'  While  in  other  forms  of  poetic  art  the  scene 
wherein  takes  place  the  movement,  lyric  or  dramatic, 
must  never  be  so  obtruded  as  to  take  more  than  a 
subordinate  place,  —  must  not,  howsoever  beautiful 
and  new,  distract  our  attention  from  the  movement  of 
the  human  passion,  —  in  scenic  poetr)',  on  the  con- 
trary, the  scene,  "  clothed,"  as  the  feudal  writers  would 


Il8  THE  LIFE  AND   WORKS 

say,  with  the  "  people,"  is  of  equal  importance  with  the 
movement  of  the  story.'     The  critic  goes  on  to  say : 

In  every  play  a  story  there  must,  of  course,  be,  or  the 
materials  would  not  cohere.  But  if  the  plot  is  too  com- 
plex or  too  absorbing,  if  the  incidents  are  too  striking,  if 
the  characters  in  their  loves  and  hates  are  too  intense, 
then  is  seen  that  mingling  of  one  kind  of  art  with  another 
which  is  at  the  root  of  almost  every  kind  of  artistic 
failure.  .  .  . 

That  the  plot  of  '  The  Foresters '  is  purposely  made 
slight,  that  the  intensity  of  the  interest  and  of  the  passion 
is  purposely  kept  down  in  order  that  a  true  picture-play 
may  be  produced,  is  made  manifest  by  the  way  in  which 
the  materials  are  laid  out  and  manipulated  by  the  drama- 
tist. Certain  of  Lord  Tennyson's  poems  —  especially  the 
late  ones,  such  as  '  Rizpah  '  and  '  Happy,'  where  the  power 
of  touching,  and  even  of  violently  disturbing,  the  soul  is 
carried  to  the  very  limit  permissible  to  art  —  show  how 
strong  is  his  hand  for  the  strongest  effects,  when  he  con- 
siders that  such  effects  are  in  harmony  with  the  kind  of 
poetic  art  in  which  he  is  at  the  moment  working  ;  and  yet 
in  the  play  before  us  he  seems  to  take  trouble  to  avoid 
strong  effects.  Take  the  very  framework  of  the  story, 
which  is  original.  Marian's  father,  Sir  Richard  Lea, 
owes  the  Abbot  of  St.  Mary  two  thousand  marks  — 
borrowed  to  ransom  Walter  Lea,  Marian's  brother,  from 
Paynim  slavery.  The  abbot's  brother,  the  Sheriff  of  Not- 
tingham, a  partisan  of  Prince  John's,  offers  to  pay  this 
debt  and  so  save  the  estate  from  foreclosure,  on  condi- 
tion that  he  may  wed  Marian,  who  is  affianced  to  the  Earl 
of  Huntington  (Robin  Hood).  Now,  the  ransom  having 
already  been  paid,  the  efforts  to  obtain  the  mortgage 
money  are  inspired  simply  by  the  desire  to  save  the  land. 
Over   and   over   again   '  the   land '  is  the  cry,   not  the 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  119 

brother,  not  the  son.  A  vis  tnotrix  of  this  kind  is  no 
doubt  sufficiently  strong  for  a  picture-play.  But  let  us 
suppose  that  the  dramatist  had  set  out  to  write  a  play  in 
which  the  movement  was  governed  by  the  warring  of  deep 
emotions  and  passions;  nothing  would  then  have  been 
easier  than  to  make  the  quest  of  the  two  thousand  marks 
a  real  source  of  tragic  interest  in  which  Marian's  love  for 
Robin  Hood  would  be  at  struggle  with  her  intense  desire 
to  get  that  money  in  order  to  ransom  her  brother. 

The  horrors  of  Moorish  slavery  sat  upon  the  mediaeval 
imagination  like  a  nightmare,  and  no  wonder.  History 
has  no  darker  chapter  than  that  which  records  those  hor- 
rors. Many  a  follower  of  Richard  who  would  have  boldly 
confronted  death  by  torture  would  have  paled  at  the  idea 
of  the  lifelong  woe  of  Paynim  slavery.  If  the  two  thou- 
sand marks  had  been  required,  not  to  save  the  land,  but 
to  save  a  beloved  brother,  a  beloved  son,  from  the  slavery 
in  which  he  was  known  to  be  languishing,  an  intense  in- 
terest would  have  been  lent  to  the  quest  of  the  two  thou- 
sand marks,  and  the  warring  of  two  deep  emotions  in  the 
soul  of  the  heroine,  so  important  not  only  in  tragedy,  but 
also  in  tragi-comedy,  would  have  been  achieved.  The 
plot  could  most  easily  have  been  so  cast  as  to  acquire 
that  intense  interest.  A  palmer,  for  instance,  might  have 
come  with  a  message  from  the  son,  a  message  full  of 
touching  details  of  his  anguish,  — details  of  a  sufficiently 
painful  kind  to  awaken  that  deep  conflict  in  Marian's 
breast  between  her  love  for  Robin  Hood  and  her  love 
and  pity  for  her  brother  at  which  we  have  hinted.  There 
is  no  exaltation  of  passion,  or  even  of  frenzy,  that  the 
dramatist  might  not  have  got  out  of  such  a  complication. 
And  there  are  throughout  the  play  many  situations  where 
the  storj'  might  have  been  intensified  had  what  is  called 
'  sensation '  been  the  quest,  —  situations  which  might  have 
been  legitimately  used  had  the  play  been  a  tragedy  or  a 


I20  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

tragi-comedy.  He  whose  dramatis  persona  are  outlaws 
(the  chief  of  whom  has  to  struggle  for  the  possession  of 
his  mistress)  must  indeed  be  poor  in  invention  if  he  pauses 
from  want  of  strong  situations.  But  in  the  '  picture-play  ' 
such  a  strong  interest  would  have  marred  the  unity  of 
the  impression  —  the  organic  harmony  of  the  picture 
—  as  much  as  the  introduction  of  an  interest  too  absorb- 
ing for  a  scenic  tale  mars  the  scenic  organism  of  '  Adam 
Bede.' 

Early  in  the  following  October  (1892)  it  was  an- 
nounced that  Lord  Tennyson  was  dangerously  sick, 
and  at  1.35  a.m.  on  the  7th  he  passed  peacefully 
away.  Sir  Andrew  Clark,  who  had  remained  by  his 
old  friend  and  patient  to  the  last,  said  afterwards  to 
a  representative  of  the  London  press  :  '  Lord  Tenny- 
son has  had  a  gloriously  beautiful  death.  In  all  my 
experience  I  have  never  witnessed  anything  more  glo- 
rious. There  were  no  artificial  lights  in  the  chamber, 
and  all  was  in  darkness  save  for  the  silvery  light  of 
the  moon  at  its  full.  The  soft  beams  of  light  fell 
upon  the  bed,  and  played  upon  the  features  of  the 
dying  poet  like  a  halo  of  Rembrandt.' 

Dr.  Dabbs,  who  was  also  in  attendance,  wrote 
thus : — 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  striking  than  the  scene 
during  the  last  few  hours.  On  the  bed  a  figure  of  breath- 
ing marble,  flooded  and  bathed  in  the  light  of  the  full 
moon  streaming  through  the  oriel  window ;  his  hand 
clasping  the  Shakespeare  which  he  had  asked  for  but 
recently,  and  which  he  had  kept  by  him  to  the  end ;  the 


I 


OF  LORD   TENNYSON.  121 

moonlight ;  the  majestic  figure  as  he  lay  there  '  drawing 
thicker  breath,'  —  irresistibly  brought  to  our  minds  his 
own  '  Passing  of  King  Arthur.'  His  last  conscious  words 
were  words  of  love  addressed  to  wife  and  son,  —  words 
too  sacred  to  be  written  here. 

We  learn  from  another  source  that  when  the 
Shakespeare  was  handed  to  the  dying  poet  in  re- 
sponse to  his  request,  he  •'  with  his  own  hands  turned 
the  leaves  till  he  had  found  "  Cymbeline."  His  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  pages,  but  whether  and  how  much 
he  read  no  one  will  ever  know,  for  again  he  lay  in 
dream  or  slumber,  or  let  his  eyes  rest  on  the  scene 
outside.' 

On  Wednesday,  October  12,  the  poet  was  buried 
in  the  '  Poets'  Corner '  of  Westminster  Abbey.  The 
London  '  Times '  of  the  next  day  begins  its  detailed 
account  of  the  services  as  follows  :  — 

All  that  was  mortal  of  the  late  Poet-Laureate  has  been 
laid  to  rest  with  all  honour  and  simplicity  side  by  side  with 
the  dust  of  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Jonson,  Dryden,  Cowley, 
and  Browning.  Of  the  immortal  memory  which  surely 
belongs  to  his  poetry,  instinct  with  strength,  purity,  grace, 
and  music,  this  is  not  the  place  to  speak.  Yet  the  solemn 
ceremony  in  Westminster  Abbey  yesterday  forms  the 
strongest  possible  testimony  of  the  national  belief  that  the 
late  Lord  Tennyson  is  distinctly  and  emphatically  one  of 
the  immortals.  Inside  the  Abbey  and  without  the  same 
testimony  was  given  in  different  ways.  Within  the  walls 
the  privileged  seats  were  filled  by  an  assemblage  emi- 
nently representative  of  the  whole  English-speaking  race. 
The  Sovereign  and  the  leading  members  of  the  Royal 


122  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

Family  had  their  official  representatives  present  and  sent 
their  tributes  of  affection  and  regret ;  the  two  Archbishops 
were  the  embodiment  of  the  Church  of  England.  States- 
men of  either  party  stood  in  common  sorrow  at  the  grave- 
side ;  medicine,  the  law,  art,  the  drama,  poetry,  literature, 
science,  and  even  the  crude  socialism  of  the  day  were  rep- 
resented by  leading  men,  who  shared  in  one  deep  feeling 
of  general  loss.  For  the  time,  doubtless,  all  of  them  felt, 
as  they  stood  in  mournful  silence,  as  Tennyson  felt  when 
he  wrote  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  — 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

And   their  feeling   was   clearly  shared  by  the  seething  9 

crowd  of  men  and  women  without,  waiting  for  the  Abbey 
doors  to  be  opened,  in  the  hope,  not  indeed  of  catching  a 
passing  glimpse  of  the  ceremonial,  but  of  hearing  the 
music  of  the  organ  and  the  singing  of  the  choir  or  of 
catching  in  the  distance  the  solemn  sentences  of  the  ser- 
vice. Not  less  impressive  was  the  throng  of  those  who, 
despairing  of  obtaining  even  standing-room  in  the  Abbey 
during  the  time  while  the  service  of  burial  proceeded, 
waited  in  patience  without,  and  then,  when  all  was  over, 
poured  in  an  uninterrupted  stream  through  the  doors  to 
take  one  last  look  at  the  grave,  and  perhaps  to  lay  near  it 
some  humble  tribute  of  affection.  In  brief,  the  occasion 
was  altogether  unique  in  its  grandeur  and  its  simplicity ; 
and  the  day  was  one  deserving  to  be  recorded,  not  merely 
by  reason  of  its  present  and  pathetic  interest,  but  also  as 
a  piece  of  English  history. 

The  two  anthems  sung  at  the  funeral  service  were 
settings  of  words  by  the  dead  Laureate  :  the  first  be- 
ing the  beautiful  'Crossing  the  Bar,'  set  simply  and 
impressively  by  Professor  Bridge,  the  Abbey  organist, 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON.  123 

*in  C  major  for  four-part  choir  without  accompani- 
ment ; '  and  the  second,  Lady  Tennyson's  musical 
rendering  of  '  The  Silent  Voices,'  a  '  gentle  and  ex- 
pressive melody  in  F  minor  very  effectively  harmo- 
nised for  four  voices  with  organ  accompaniment  by 
Professor  Bridge.' 

Then  [to  quote  again  from  the  'Times']  came  the  last 
scene  at  the  grave-side.  The  clergy  and  the  mourners 
and  the  coffin,  with  the  pall-bearers,  advanced,  to  the 
strains  of  Chopin's  '  Marche  Funebre,'  and  here  for  the 
first  time  the  Dean  took  part  in  the  service,  reading  the 
committal  to  the  grave  and  the  prayer  and  collect.  Close 
by  the  Dean  and  on  his  right  hand  were  the  Masters  of 
Trinity  College  and  of  Balliol,  of  whom  the  last-named 
lingered  long  by  the  grave.  Close  to  them  was  a  little 
boy,  a  grandson  of  Lord  Tennyson.  Behind  the  little  boy 
were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Augustine  Birrell.  At  the  far  end  from 
the  Dean  were  the  Hon.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hallam  Tennyson, 
the  former  upright  and  calm,  the  latter  with  her  head 
bowed  and  closely  veiled.  Immediately  behind  them  was 
Mr.  Irving,  and  not  far  back  in  the  throng  of  mourners, 
Mr.  Lewis  Morris.  Behind  the  principal  mourners,  again, 
was  the  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons.  Lord  Salis- 
bury kept  his  original  place  in  relation  to  the  coffin.  Soon 
all  was  over,  and  it  was  almost  a  relief  to  hear  the  choir 
singing  in  triumphant  harmony  Heber's  hymn  '  Holy, 
Holy,  Holy  '  ('  Nicaea '),  which  Lord  Tennyson  chose  for 
his  son's  wedding  and  considered  to  be  the  most  beauti- 
ful of  hymns.  Then,  after  the  blessing  had  been  said  by 
the  Dean,  one  mourner  after  another  gazed  long  at  the 
open  grave,  and  left  the  Abbey  amidst  the  silent  crowd, 
while  the  '  Dead  March '  in  '  Saul '  came  floating  from  the 
organ. 


124 


THE  LIFE  AND   WORKS 


Surely  we  may  say,  as  another  has  said,  that 
*  Tennyson's  burial  was  of  a  piece  with  his  life,  which 
was  full  of  dignity  and  of  calm  and  of  an  unbroken 
steadfastness.  Had  any  verse  but  his  own  been  sung 
over  him,  it  could  but  have  been  the  unequalled,  Ely- 
sian  lines  of  Virgil,  telling  how  among  the  odorous 
laurels,  and  among  "  fields  invested  with  purpureal 
gleams,"  chanting  together  by  the  waters,  and  crowned 
with  snowy  wreaths,  are  warriors  and  priests,  and  all 
who  deserve  well  of  mankind  :  — 

Quique  pii  vates,  et  Phoebe  digna  locuti.' 

The  grave  of  the  Laureate  is  in  the  aisle  of  the 
South  Transept  ('Poets'  Corner'),  near  the  entrance 
to  the  Royal  Chapels.  Next  to  it  is  the  grave  of 
Browning,  with  its  white  stone  slab  inscribed  *  Robert 
Browning,  1889,'  and  close  by  is  the  Dryden  memo- 
rial. On  the  other  side  is  the  slab  which  bears  record 
that  'near  this  stone  are  buried  Geoffrey  Chaucer, 
1400  j  Francis  Beaumont,  1616;  Sir  John  Denham, 
1669;  Sir  Robert  Moray,  first  President  of  the  Royal 
Society,  1673;  John  Dryden,  1700.'  Immediately 
above  the  spot  is  the  beautiful  Chaucer  window,  over 
the  tomb  of  the  poet,  the  incidents  in  the  '  Canterbury 
Pilgrimage '  being  reproduced  in  the  stained  glass 
through  which  the  chastened  light  falls  on  the  monu- 
ments below.  The  busts  of  Longfellow  and  Milton 
are  in  the  same  corner,  with  the  memorials  of  Thomas 
Gray,  Ben  Jonson,  and  Samuel  Butler. 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON, 


125 


It  was  generally  known  before  the  death  of  Lord 
Tennyson  that  he  had  another  volume  of  verse  in  the 
printer's  hands ;  and  this  was  published,  a  few  weeks 
later,  with  the  title,  '  The  Death  of  CEnone,  Akbar's 
Dream,  and  Other  Poems.'  Mr.  Lionel  Johnson,  in 
the  London  'Academy'  for  Nov.  5,  1892,  well  says 
of  it :  — 

Like  Browning's  'Asolando,'  Tennyson's  posthumous 
volume  is  full  of  fine  things,  not  unworthy  of  his  prime  : 
all  varieties  of  Tennysonian  thought  and  music  are  to  be 
found  in  this  little  book  of  twenty-four  poems.  '  The 
Death  of  CEnone,'  '  St.  Telemachus,'  and  '  Akbar's 
Dream'  are  narrative  or  meditative  poems  in  blank 
verse  ;  '  The  Bandit's  Death  '  and  '  Charity  '  are  rhymed 
dramatic  idyls  ;  '  The  Churchwarden  and  the  Curate  '  is  a 
dramatic  study  of  Lincolnshire  humours  in  the  Lincoln- 
shire dialect ;  '  Kapiolani '  is  a  piece  of  savage  heroism 
chanted  in  unrhymed  rhythm.  There  are  five  occasional 
poems,  three  of  them  dedicatory,  one  patriotic,  and  one 
memorial ;  there  are  some  eight  poems  of  what  may  be 
termed  cosmic  emotion  and  spiritual  speculation,  mostly 
written  in  long  and  sonorous  measures ;  three  simple 
lyrics ;  and  one  sonnet. 

It  is  very  noticeable  that  Tennyson's  later  verse  has 
renounced  much  of  that  rich  intricacy  of  workmanship 
which  used  to  distinguish  it :  the  emble?na  verviiculatu7n, 
in  Lucilius's  phrase,  —  intricate  mosaic-work  in  words,  — 
which  was  at  once  the  poet's  glory  and  his  peril,  ceased 
to  fascinate  him.  Like  his  own  'laborious  orient  ivory, 
sphere  in  sphere,'  so  his  verse  was  a  mar\'el  of  dexterous, 
cunning  craft ;  but  it  is  no  new  reproach  or  heresy  to  dare 
to  say  that  the  work  was  sometimes  over-delicate  or  gor- 
geous.    His  later  verse  was  more  direct  in  its  beauty. 


126  THE  LIFE  AND    WORKS 

more  classical  and  severe ;  it  became  more  Virgilian,  less 
Statian;  less  opulent,  more  austere.  It  relied  more  and 
more  upon  the  powers  of  rhythm,  and  less  upon  the 
charms  of  rhyme ;  and  while  something  of  the  old 
peculiar  magic  was  lost,  we  were  compensated  by  the 
greater  simplicity  and  strength.  No  one  doubts  that  the 
'Lotos-Eaters,'  '  Ulysses,' and  many  more  of  the  poems 
which  we  have  known  for  years,  including  some  score  of 
lyrics,  will  be  held  his  greatest  work ;  but  in  my  judg- 
ment the  books  of  his  old  age  contain  poems  finer  than 
any  but  the  very  finest  works  of  his  middle  age  and 
youth.  .  .  . 

There  is  much  beauty  and  power  in  the  book.  .  .  . 
Even  so  shght  a  thing  as  'The  Journey'  contains  the 
perfect  line,  '  Ralph  went  down  like  a  fire  to  the  fight ; ' 
and 'The  Silent  Voices'  are  still  echoing  in  our  ears, 
while  '  The  Making  of  Man,'  '  Faith,'  and  '  God  and  the 
Universe  '  are  triumphs  of  rhythm  and  of  prophetic  fire,  of 
Delphic  majesty  and  vision.  But  it  is  of  little  avail  to 
spend  words  upon  these  things  just  now.  Under  the 
shadow  of  death  not  even  the  criticism  of  a  master  would 
be  of  much  value. 

Year  will  graze  the  heel  of  year, 
But  seldom  comes  the  poet  here, 
And  the  Critic's  rarer  still ! 

In  closing  this  imperfect  sketch  of  the  life  and 
literary  career  of  Tennyson,  let  me  say  that  he  seems 
to  me  one  of  the  most  fortunate  of  poets  :  fortunate 
in  his  birth  and  the  surroundings  and  influences  of 
his  boyhood  ;  fortunate  in  his  university  teachers  and 
friends,  to  whom  he  alludes  so  eloquently  in  'The 
Two  Voices ; '    fortunate  in   the   experiences,  though 


OF  LORD    TENNYSON. 


127 


the  chief  of  these  was  the  loss  of  his  dearest  friend, 
that  led  to  the  silence  of  ten  years,  during  which  his 
genius  was  maturing  without  the  necessity  of  his  earn- 
ing his  bread  with  the  pen,  as  many  poets  have  been 
compelled  to  do ;  fortunate  in  later  years  in  knowing 
no  more  of  poverty  (if  poverty  it  could  be  called) 
than  might  suffice  to  give  a  zest  to  the  prosperity  and 
renown  that  followed  ;  fortunate  in  his  marriage  and 
in  his  whole  domestic  life  ;  fortunate  in  his  old  age, 
blest  as  it  was  with  all  that  should  accompany  old  age, 
*  honour,  love,  and  troops  of  friends  ; '  fortunate  even 
in  his  death,  which  was  heralded  by  no  impairment  of 
his  powers  and  attended  with  no  prolonged  sickness 
and  suffering ;  and  fortunate  in  the  place  that  pos- 
terity will  accord  him  in  the  royal  succession  of  the 
great  English  poets. 

W.  J.  R. 


POEMS. 


VOL.  I.  —  9 


I 
I 


yictoria. 
Mezzotint  by  G.  W.  H.  Ritchie. 


I 


i 


TO    THE   QUEEN. 

Revered,  beloved —  O  you  that  hold 

A  nobler  office  upon  earth 

Than  arms,  or  power  of  brain,  or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old, 

Victoria,  —  since  your  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 

Of  him  that  utter  d  nothing  base  ; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there  ; 

Then  —  while  a  sweeter  music  wakes. 
And  thro  wild  March  the  throstle  calls. 
Where  all  about  your  palace-walls 

The  sun-lit  almond-blossom  shakes  — 


132  TO    THE   QUEEN. 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song  ; 
For  thd'  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 
In  vacant  chambers,  I  could  trust 

Your  kifidtiess.     May  you  rule  us  long, 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 
As  noble  till  the  latest  day  ! 
May  children  of  our  children  say, 

'  She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good ; 

'  Her  court  was  pure  ;   her  life  serene  ; 

God  gave  her  peace  ;  her  land  reposed ; 

A  thousand  claims  to  reveretice  closed 
In  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen  ; 

^  And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 
Who  knew  the  seasons  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  'make 

The  bo2inds  of  freedom  wider  yet 

'  By  shaping  some  august  decree. 

Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  still, 
Broad-based  upon  her  people' s  will, 

And  compassed  by  the  inviolate  sea.' 

March,  1851. 


JUVENILIA. 


CLARIBEL. 


A    MELODY. 


I. 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth    ^ 
The  breezes  pause  and  die,  "^ 
Letting  the  rose-leaves  fall :  ^ 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth,  ^ 
Thick-leaved,  ambrosial,    v  ^ 
With  an  ancient  melody     <- 
Of  an  inward  agony,      ^ 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth.    ^ 

II. 

At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 
Athwart  the  thicket  lone  : 

At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 
About  the  moss'd  headstone : 


134 


CLARIBEL. 


At  midnight  the  moon  cometh, 

And  looketh  down  alone. 
Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth, 
The  clear-voiced  mavis  dwelleth, 

The  callow  throstle  lispeth, 
The  slumbrous  wave  outwelleth, 
The  babbling  runnel  crispeth, 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


NOTHING    WILL  DIE.  135 


NOTHING  WILL   DIE. 

When  will  the  stream  be  aweary  of  flowing 

Under  my  eye? 
When  will  the  wind  be  aweary  of  blowing 

Over  the  sky? 
When  will  the  clouds  be  aweary  of  fleeting? 
When  will  the  heart  be  aweary  of  beating? 

And  nature  die? 
Never,  oh  !   never,  nothing  will  die  ; 

The  stream  flows, 

The  wind  blows, 

The  cloud  fleets, 

The  heart  beats, 

Nothing  will  die. 

Nothing  will  die ; 
All  things  will  change 
Thro*  eternity. 
'T  is  the  world's  winter ; 
Autumn  and  summer 


136  NOTHING    WILL   DIE. 

Are  gone  long  ago ; 
Earth  is  dry  to  the  centre, 
But  spring,  a  new  comer, 
A  spring  rich  and  strange, 
Shall  make  the  winds  blow 
Round  and  round, 
Thro'  and  thro', 

Here  and  there, 

Till  the  air 
And  the  ground 
Shall  be  fill'd  with  life  anew. 

The  world  was  never  made ; 

It  will  change,  but  it  will  not  fade. 

So  let  the  wind  range ; 

For  even  and  morn 

Ever  will  be 

Thro'  eternity. 
Nothing  was  born ; 
Nothing  will  die ; 
All  things  will  change. 


( 


ALL    THINGS    WILL  DIE.  137 


ALL  THINGS  WILL  DIE. 

Clearly  the  blue  river  chimes  in  its  flowing 

Under  my  eye ; 
Warmly  and  broadly  the  south  winds  are  blowing 

Over  the  sky. 
One  after  another  the  white  clouds  are  fleeting; 
Every   heart  this    May  morning  in  joyance   is 
beating 

Full  merrily ; 
Yet  all  things  must  die. 
The  stream  will  cease  to  flow; 
The  wind  will  cease  to  blow ; 
The  clouds  will  cease  to  fleet ; 
The  heart  will  cease  to  beat ; 
For  all  things  must  die. 
All  things  must  die. 
Spring  will  come  never  more. 

Oh !  vanity ! 
Death  waits  at  the  door. 


138  ALL    THINGS    WILL  DIE. 

See  !  our  friends  are  all  forsaking 

The  wine  and  the  merrymaking. 

We  are  call'd  — we  must  go. 

Laid  low,  very  low, 

In  the  dark  we  must  lie. 

The  merry  glees  are  still ; 

The  voice  of  the  bird 

Shall  no  more  be  heard, 

Nor  the  wind  on  the  hill. 

Oh!  misery! 
Hark  !  death  is  calling 
While  I  speak  to  ye, 
The  jaw  is  falling, 
The  red  cheek  paling. 
The  strong  limbs  failing ; 
Ice  with  the  warm  blood  mixing; 
The  eyeballs  fixing. 
Nine  times  goes  the  passing  bell : 
Ye  merry  souls,  farewell. 

The  old  earth 

Had  a  birth, 

As  all  men  know, 

Long  ago. 
And  the  old  earth  must  die. 


ALL    THINGS    WILL  DIE.  139 

So  let  the  warm  winds  range, 

And  the  blue  wave  beat  the  shore ; 

For  even  and  morn 

Ye  will  never  see 

Thro'  eternity. 

All  things  were  born. 

Ye  will  come  never  more, 

For  all  things  must  die. 


140  LEONINE  ELEGIACS. 


LEONINE   ELEGIACS. 

Low-flowing  breezes  are  roaming  the  broad 
valley  dimm'd  in  the  gloaming: 

Thoro'  the  black-stemm'd  pines  only  the  far 
river  shines. 

Creeping  thro'  blossomy  rushes  and  bowers  of 
rose-blowing  bushes, 

Down  by  the  poplar  tall  rivulets  babble  and  fall. 

Barketh  the  shepherd-dog  cheerly;  the  grass- 
hopper carolleth  clearly; 

Deeply  the  wood-dove  coos;  shrilly  the  owlet 
halloos ; 

Winds  creep ;  dews  fall  chilly :  in  her  first  sleep 
earth  breathes  stilly : 

Over  the  pools  in  the  burn  water-gnats  murmur 
and  mourn. 

Sadly  the  far  kine  loweth :  the  glimmering  water 
outfloweth : 

Twin  peaks  shadow'd  with  pine  slope  to  the 
dark  hyaline. 


LEONINE  ELEGIACS.  141 

Low-throned  Hesper  is  stayed  between  the  two 

peaks ;   but  the  Naiad 
Throbbing  in  mild  unrest  holds  him  beneath  in 

her  breast. 
The  ancient  poetess  singeth,  that  Hesperus  all 

things  bringeth, 
Smoothing  the  wearied  mind  :  bring  me  my  love, 

Rosalind. 
Thou  comest  morning  or  even;  she  cometh  not 

morning  or  even. 
False-eyed  Hesper,  unkind,  where  is  my  sweet 

RosaHnd? 


142  SUPPOSED   CONFESSIONS, 


SUPPOSED    CONFESSIONS 

OF    A    SECOND-RATE    SENSITIVE    MIND. 

0  God  !  my  God  !  have  mercy  now. 

1  faint,  I  fall.     Men  say  that  Thou 
Didst  die  for  me,  for  such  as  me, 
Patient  of  ill,  and  death,  and  scorn. 
And  that  my  sin  was  as  a  thorn 
Among  the  thorns  that  girt  Thy  brow, 
Wounding  Thy  soul.  —  That  even  now, 
In  this  extremest  misery 

Of  ignorance,  I  should  require 
A  sign  !  and  if  a  bolt  of  fire 
Would  rive  the  slumbrous  summer  noon 
While  I  do  pray  to  Thee  alone, 
Think  my  belief  would  stronger  grow ! 
Is  not  my  human  pride  brought  low? 
The  boastings  of  my  spirit  still? 
The  joy  I  had  in  my  freewill 


SUPPOSED   CONFESSIONS.  143 

All  cold,  and  dead,  and  corpse-like  grown? 
And  what  is  left  to  me,  but  Thou, 
And  faith  in  Thee?     Men  pass  me  by; 
Christians  with  happy  countenances  — 
And  children  all  seem  full  of  Thee ! 
And  women  smile  with  saint-like  glances 
Like  Thine  own  mother's  when  she  bow'd 
Above  Thee,  on  that  happy  morn 
When  angels  spake  to  men  aloud. 
And  Thou  and  peace  to  earth  were  born. 
Goodwill  to  me  as  well  as  all  — 
I  one  of  them  :   my  brothers  they : 
Brothers  in  Christ —  a  world  of  peace 
And  confidence,  day  after  day ; 
And  trust  and  hope  till  things  should  cease, 
And  then  one  Heaven  receive  us  all. 

How  sweet  to  have  a  common  faith  ! 

To  hold  a  common  scorn  of  death  ! 

And  at  a  burial  to  hear 

The  creaking  cords  which  wound  and  eat 

Into  my  human  heart,  whene'er 

Earth  goes  to  earth,  with  grief,  not  fear. 

With  hopeful  grief,  were  passing  sweet ! 


144  SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS. 

Thrice  happy  state  again  to  be 
The  trustful  infant  on  the  knee ! 
Who  lets  his  rosy  fingers  play 
About  his  mother's  neck,  and  knows 
Nothing  beyond  his  mother's  eyes. 
They  comfort  him  by  night  and  day; 
They  light  his  little  life  alway ; 
He  hath  no  thought  of  coming  woes; 
He  hath  no  care  of  life  or  death ; 
Scarce  outward  signs  of  joy  arise, 
Because  the  Spirit  of  happiness 
And  perfect  rest  so  inward  is ; 
And  loveth  so  his  innocent  heart 
Her  temple  and  her  place  of  birth, 
Where  she  would  ever  wish  to  dwell. 
Life  of  the  fountain  there,  beneath 
Its  salient  springs,  and  far  apart, 
Hating  to  wander  out  on  earth. 
Or  breathe  into  the  hollow  air. 
Whose  chillness  would  make  visible 
Her  subtil,  warm,  and  golden  breath, 
Which,  mixing  with  the  infant's  blood, 
Fulfils  him  with  beatitude. 
Oh !  sure  it  is  a  special  care 


SUPPOSED   CONFESSIONS.  HS 

Of  God,  to  fortify  from  doubt, 
To  arm  in  proof,  and  guard  about 
With  triple-mailed  trust,  and  clear 
Delight,  the  infant's  dawning  year. 

Would  that  my  gloomed  fancy  were 

As  thine,  my  mother,  when  with  brows 

Propt  on  thy  knees,  my  hands  upheld 

In  thine,  I  Hsten'd  to  thy  vows. 

For  me  outpour'd  in  holiest  prayer  — 

For  me  unworthy !  —  and  beheld 

Thy  mild  deep  eyes  upraised,  that  knew 

The  beauty  and  repose  of  faith, 

And  the  clear  spirit  shining  thro'. 

Oh  !  wherefore  do  we  grow  awry 

From  roots  which  strike  so  deep  ?  why  dare 

Paths  in  the  desert?     Could  not  I 

Bow  myself  down,  where  thou  hast  knelt, 

To  the  earth  —  until  the  ice  would  melt 

Here,  and  I  feel  as  thou  hast  felt? 

What  Devil  had  the  heart  to  scathe 

Flowers  thou  hadst  rear'd  —  to  brush  the  dew 

From  thine  own  lily,  when  thy  grave 

Was  deep,  my  mother,  in  the  clay? 

VOL.  I. —  lO 


146  SUPPOSED   CONFESSIONS. 

Myself?     Is  it  thus?     Myself?     Had  I 

So  little  love  for  thee?     But  why 

Prevail'd  not  thy  pure  prayers?     Why  pray 

To  one  who  heeds  not,  who  can  save 

But  will  not?     Great  in  faith,  and  strong 

Against  the  grief  of  circumstance 

Wert  thou,  and  yet  unheard.     What  if 

Thou  pleadest  still,  and  seest  me  drive 

Thro'  utter  dark  a  full-sail'd  skiff, 

Unpiloted  i'  the  echoing  dance 

Of  reboant  whirlwinds,  stooping  low 

Unto  the  death,  not  sunk  !     I  know, 

At  matins  and  at  evensong, 

That  thou,  if  thou  wert  yet  alive. 

In  deep  and  daily  prayers  would'st  strive 

To  reconcile  me  with  thy  God. 

Albeit,  my  hope  is  gray,  and  cold 

At  heart,  thou  wouldest  murmur  still  — 

'  Bring  this  lamb  back  into  Thy  fold, 

My  Lord,  if  so  it  be  Thy  will;' 

Would'st  tell  me  I  must  brook  the  rod 

And  chastisement  of  human  pride; 

That  pride,  the  sin  of  devils,  stood 

Betwixt  me  and  the  light  of  God ; 


SUPPOSED   CONFESSIONS.  I47 

That  hitherto  I  had  defied 

And  had  rejected  God  ;   that  grace 

Would  drop  from  His  o'er-brimming  love, 

As  manna  on  my  wilderness, 

If  I  would  pray ;  that  God  would  move 

And  strike  the  hard,  hard  rock,  and  thence, 

Sweet  in  their  utmost  bitterness, 

Would  issue  tears  of  penitence 

Which  would  keep  green  hope's  life.     Alas  ! 

I  think  that  pride  hath  now  no  place 

Nor  sojourn  in  me.     I  am  void. 

Dark,  formless,  utterly  destroyed. 

Why  not  believe  then?     Why  not  yet 
Anchor  thy  frailty  there,  where  man 
Hath  moor'd  and  rested?     Ask  the  sea 
At  midnight,  when  the  crisp  slope  waves 
After  a  tempest,  rib  and  fret 
The  broad-imbased  beach,  why  he 
Slumbers  not  like  a  mountain  tarn? 
Wherefore  his  ridges  are  not  curls 
And  ripples  of  an  inland  mere? 
Wherefore  he  moaneth  thus,  nor  can 
Draw  down  into  his  vexed  pools 


148  SUPPOSED    CONFESSIONS. 

All  that  blue  heaven  which  hues  and  paves 
The  other?     I  am  too  forlorn, 
Too  shaken  :   my  own  weakness  fools 
My  judgment,  and  my  spirit  whirls, 
Moved  from  beneath  with  doubt  and  fear. 

'  Yet,'  said  I,  in  my  morn  of  youth, 

The  unsunn'd  freshness  of  my  strength, 

When  I  went  forth  in  quest  of  truth, 

'  It  is  man's  privilege  to  doubt, 

If  so  be  that  from  doubt  at  length 

Truth  may  stand  forth  unmoved  of  change, 

An  image  with  profulgent  brows, 

And  perfect  limbs,  as,  from  the  storm 

Of  running  fires  and  fluid  range 

Of  lawless  airs,  at  last  stood  out 

This  excellence  and  solid  form 

Of  constant  beauty.     For  the  ox 

Feeds  in  the  herb,  and  sleeps,  or  fills 

The  horned  valleys  all  about, 

And  hollows  of  the  fringed  hills 

In  summer  heats,  with  placid  lows 

Unfearing,  till  his  own  blood  flows 

About  his  hoof.     And  in  the  flocks 


SUPPOSED   CONFESSIONS.  149 

The  lamb  rejoiceth  in  the  year, 

And  raceth  freely  with  his  fere, 

And  answers  to  his  mother's  calls 

From  the  flower'd  furrow.     In  a  time, 

Of  which  he  wots  not,  run  short  pains 

Thro'  his  warm  heart ;  and  then,  from  whence 

He  knows  not,  on  his  light  there  falls 

A  shadow;  and  his  native  slope, 

Where  he  was  wont  to  leap  and  climb. 

Floats  from  his  sick  and  filmed  eyes. 

And  something  in  the  darkness  draws 

His  forehead  earthward,  and  he  dies. 

Shall  man  live  thus,  in  joy  and  hope 

As  a  young  lamb,  who  cannot  dream, 

Living,  but  that  he  shall  live  on? 

Shall  we  not  look  into  the  laws 

Of  life  and  death,  and  things  that  seem. 

And  things  that  be,  and  analyse 

Our  double  nature,  and  compare 

All  creeds  till  we  have  found  the  one, 

If  one  there  be?'     Ay  me  !   I  fear 

All  may  not  doubt,  but  everyv/here 

Some  must  clasp  Idols.     Yet,  my  God, 

Whom  call  I  Idol?     Let  Thy  dove 


ISO  SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS. 

Shadow  me  over,  and  my  sins 
Be  unremember'd,  and  Thy  love 
Enlighten  me.     Oh  !  teach  me  yet 
Somewhat  before  the  heavy  clod 
Weighs  on  me,  and  the  busy  fret 
Of  that  sharp-headed  worm  begins 
In  the  gross  blackness  underneath. 

O  weary  life  !     O  weary  death  ! 
O  spirit  and  heart  made  desolate ! 
O  damned  vacillating  state  ! 


THE  KRAKEN.  151 


THE   KRAKEN. 

Below  the  thunders  of  the  upper  deep, 

Far,  far  beneath  in  the  abysmal  sea. 

His  ancient,  dreamless,  uninvaded  sleep 

The  Kraken  sleepeth:   faintest  sunlights  flee 

About  his  shadowy  sides :   above  him  swell 

Huge  sponges  of  millennial  growth  and  height; 

And  far  away  into  the  sickly  light, 

From  many  a  wondrous  grot  and  secret  cell 

Unnumber'd  and  enormous  polypi 

Winnow  with  giant  arms  the  slumbering  green. 

There  hath  he  lain  for  ages  and  will  lie 

Battening  upon  huge  seaworms  in  his  sleep, 

Until  the  latter  fire  shall  heat  the  deep ; 

Then  once  by  man  and  angels  to  be  seen, 

In  roarincr  he  shall  rise  and  on  the  surface  die. 


152  SOA'G. 


SONG. 

The  winds,  as  at  their  hour  of  birth, 
Leaning  upon  the  ridged  sea, 

Breathed  low  around  the  rolling  earth 
With  mellow  preludes,  '  We  are  free.' 

The  streams  through  many  a  lilied  row 
Down-carolling  to  the  crisped  sea. 

Low-tinkled  with  a  bell-like  flow 

Atween  the  blossoms,  '  We  are  free.' 


LILIAN. 


LILIAN. 


153 


I. 

Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 

Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 
When  I  ask  her  if  she  love  me. 
Claps  her  tiny  hands  above  me, 

Laughing  all  she  can  ; 
She  '11  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me, 

Cruel  little  Lilian. 

II. 
When  my  passion  seeks 
Pleasance  in  love-sighs. 
She,  looking  thro'  and  thro'  me 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me, 

Smiling,  never  speaks : 
So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple, 
From  beneath  her  gathered  wimple 
Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes. 
Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 

The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks ; 
Then  away  she  flies. 


1 54  LILIAiV. 

m. 
Prythee  weep,  May  Lilian  ! 

Gaiety  without  eclipse 

Wearieth  me,  May  Lilian : 

Thro'  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 

When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth : 
Prythee  weep,  May  Lilian. 

IV. 

Praying  all  I  can, 
If  prayers  will  not  hush  thee. 

Airy  Lilian, 
Like  a  rose-leaf  I  will  crush  thee, 

Fairy  Lilian. 


Airy,  Fairy  Lilian. 

Lilian. 
Photo-Etching  from  Painting  by  Maud  Humphrey. 


ISABEL.  155 


ISABEL. 

I. 

Eyes  not  down-dropt  nor  over-bright,  but  fed 
With  the  clear-pointed  flame  of  chastity, 
Clear,  without  heat,  undying,  tended  by 

Pure  vestal  thoughts  in  the  translucent  fane 

Of  her  still  spirit;    locks  not  wide-dispread, 

Madonna-wise  on  either  side  her  head ; 

Sweet  lips  whereon  perpetually  did  reign 
The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity, 

Were  fixed  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood, 
Revered  Isabel,  the  crown  and  head, 

The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude. 
Of  perfect  wifehood  and  pure  lowlihead. 


156  ISABEL. 

II. 
The  intuitive  decision  of  a  bright 

And  thorough-edged  intellect  to  part 
Error  from  crime  ;  a  prudence  to  withhold  ; 
The  laws  of  marriage  character'd  in  gold 

Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her  heart ; 
A  love  still  burning  upward,  giving  light 
To  read  those  laws ;    an  accent  very  low 
In  blandishment,  but  a  most  silver  flow 

Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  distress. 
Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  tho'  undescried, 

Winning  its  way  with  extreme  gentleness 
Thro'  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious  pride; 
A  courage  to  endure  and  to  obey ; 
A  hate  of  gossip  parlance,  and  of  sway, 
Crown'd  Isabel,  thro'  all  her  placid  life, 
The  queen  of  marriage,  a  most  perfect  wife. 

III. 
The  mellow'd  reflex  of  a  winter  moon  ; 
A  clear  stream  flowing  with  a  muddy  one, 
Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absorbs 
With  swifter  movement  and  in  purer  light 
The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward  brother : 


ISABEL.  157 

A  leaning  and  upbearing  parasite, 
Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had  fallen  quite 
With  cluster'd  flower-bells  and  ambrosial  orbs 
Of  rich  fruit-bunches  leaning  on  each  other  — 
Shadow   forth    thee :  —  the    world    hath    not 
another 
(Tho'  all  her  fairest  forms  are  types  of  thee, 
And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity) 
Of  such  a  finish'd  chasten'd  purity. 


IS8  MARIANA. 


MARIANA. 

*  Mariana  in  the  moated  grange.' 

Measure  for  Measure. 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 
Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all : 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  pear  to  the  gable-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  look'd  sad  and  strange : 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch ; 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  '  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said ; 
She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  ! ' 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even ; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried ; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 

Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 


MARIANA.  159 

After  the  flitting  of  the  bats, 

When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky, 
She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by, 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 
She  only  said,  'The  night  is  dreary. 

He  Cometh  not,'  she  said ; 
She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead ! ' 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night. 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl  crow : 
The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light : 

From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 
Came  to  her :  without  hope  of  change, 
In  sleep  she  seem'd  to  walk  forlorn. 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed  morn 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  '  The  day  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,'  she  said ; 
She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !  ' 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blacken'd  waters  slept, 


l6o  MARIANA. 

And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small, 

The  cluster'd  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alway, 
All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark: 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  '  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,'  she  said ; 
She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
T  would  that  I  were  dead ! ' 


And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away, 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low, 

And  wild  winds  bound  within  their  cell. 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  '  The  night  is  dreary. 

He  cometh  not,'  she  said ; 
She  said,  '  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead ! ' 


MARIANA.  i6i 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak'd ; 
The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  pane  ;  the  mouse 

Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot  shriek'd, 
Or  from  the  crevice  peer'd  about. 
Old  faces  glimmer'd  thro'  the  doors, 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  flioors, 
Old  voices  call'd  her  from  without. 
She  only  said,  '  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,'  she  said ; 
She  said,  *  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead !  ' 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof, 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 
Her  sense ;  but  most  she  loathed  the  hour 
When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 
Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 
Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 
Then,  said  she,  '  I  am  very  dreary. 

He  will  not  come,'  she  said; 
She  wept,  *  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
O  God,  that  I  were  dead  !  ' 

VOU.  1.  —  II 


1 62  TO 


TO   . 

I. 
Clear-headed  friend,  whose  joyful  scorn, 
Edged  with  sharp  laughter,  cuts  atvvain 
The  knots  that  tangle  human  creeds. 
The  wounding  cords  that  bind  and  strain 
The  heart  until  it  bleeds, 
Ray-fringed  eyelids  of  the  morn 

Roof  not  a  glance  so  keen  as  thine : 
If  aught  of  prophecy  be  mine, 
Thou  wilt  not  live  in  vain. 

II. 

Low-cowering  shall  the  Sophist  sit ; 

Falsehood  shall  bare  her  plaited  brow : 

Fair-fronted  Truth  shall  droop  not  now 
With  shrilling  shafts  of  subtle  wit. 
Nor  martyr-flames,  nor  trenchant  swords 

Can  do  away  that  ancient  lie; 

A  gentler  death  shall  Falsehood  die. 
Shot  thro'  and  thro'  with  cunning  words. 


TO  .  163 

III. 

Weak  Truth  a-leaning  on  her  crutch, 

Wan,  wasted  Truth  in  her  utmost  need. 

Thy  kingly  intellect  shall  feed, 
Until  she  be  an  athlete  bold, 
And  weary  with  a  finger's  touch 

Those  writhed  limbs  of  lightning  speed  ; 
Like  that  strange  angel  which  of  old. 

Until  the  breaking  of  the  light, 
Wrestled  with  wandering  Israel, 

Past  Yabbok  brook  the  livelong  night, 
And  heaven's  mazed  signs  stood  still 
In  the  dim  tract  of  Penuel. 


1 64  MADELINE. 


MADELINE. 

I. 

Thou  art  not  steep'd  in  golden  languors, 
No  tranced  summer  calm  is  thine, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thro'  light  and  shadow  thou  dost  range, 
Sudden  glances,  sweet  and  strange, 

Delicious  spites  and  darling  angers, 
And  airy  forms  of  flitting  change. 

II. 

Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 
Revealings  deep  and  clear  are  thine 
Of  wealthy  smiles  :   but  who  may  know 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  fleeter? 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  sweeter, 

Who  may  know? 
Frowns  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 


MADELIXE.  165 

Light-glooming  over  eyes  divine, 

Like  little  clouds  sun-fringed,  are  thine. 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 

Thy  smile  and  frown  are  not  aloof 

From  one  another, 

Each  to  each  is  dearest  brother; 
Hues  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 

Momently  shot  into  each  other. 
All  the  mystery  is  thine ; 

Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 

Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 

III. 

A  subtle,  sudden  flame. 

By  veering  passion  fann'd, 
About  thee  breaks  and  dances : 

When  I  would  kiss  thy  hand. 
The  flush  of  anger'd  shame 
O'erflows  thy  calmer  glances, 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown : 
But  when  I  turn  away. 
Thou,  willing  me  to  stay, 


1 66  MADELINE. 

Wooest  not,  nor  vainly  wranglest ; 

But,  looking  fixedly  the  while, 
All  my  bounding  heart  entanglest 

In  a  golden-netted  smile ; 
Then  in  madness  and  in  bliss. 
If  my  lips  should  dare  to  kiss 
Thy  taper  fingers  amorously, 
Again  thou  blushest  angerly; 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown. 


"When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch." 

The  Owl 

Photogravure  from  painting  by  E.  H.  Garrett. 


t 


# 


e 


iS-v'  /« 


^ 


ft. 


•** 


SONG— THE    OWL.  1 67 


SONG  — THE   OWL. 

I. 

When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 

And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 

And  the  far-ofif  stream  is  dumb, 

And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 

And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round ; 

Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 

The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

n. 
When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay. 
And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the  thatch 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay, 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


1 68  SECOND  SONG. 


SECOND   SONG. 

TO   THE   SAME. 
I. 

Thy  tuwhits  are  lull'd,  I  wot, 

Thy  tuwhoos  of  yesternight, 
Which  upon  the  dark  afloat, 
So  took  echo  with  delight, 
So  took  echo  with  delight. 

That  her  voice  untuneful  grown, 
Wears  all  day  a  fainter  tone. 

II. 
I  would  mock  thy  chaunt  anew; 

But  I  cannot  mimick  it; 
Not  a  whit  of  thy  tuwhoo, 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit. 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 
With  a  lengthen'd  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo,  tuwhit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo-o-o. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.     1 69 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  THE   ARABIAN 
NIGHTS. 

When  the  breeze  of  a  joyful  dawn  blew  free 

In  the  silken  sail  of  infancy, 

The  tide  of  time  flow'd  back  with  me, 

The  forward-flowing  tide  of  time ; 
And  many  a  sheeny  summer-morn 
Adown  the  Tigris  I  was  borne, 
By  Bagdat's  shrines  of  fretted  gold. 
High-walled  gardens  green  and  old ; 
True  Mussulman  was  I  and  sworn, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro' 
The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The  fragrant,  glistening  deeps,  and  clove 
The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue : 
By  garden  porches  on  the  brim. 
The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide, 


1 70    RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

Gold  glittering  thro'  lamplight  dim, 
And  broider'd  sofas  on  each  side : 
In  sooth  it  was  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Often,  where  clear-stemm'd  platans  guard 
The  outlet,  did  I  turn  away 
The  boat-head  down  a  broad  canal 
From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 
The  sloping  of  the  moon-lit  sward 
Was  damask-work,  and  deep  inlay 
Of  braided  blooms  unmown,  which  crept 
Adown  to  where  the  water  slept. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time. 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

A  motion  from  the  river  won 
Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  thro'  the  star-strown  calm. 
Until  another  night  in  night 
I  enter'd,  from  the  clearer  light, 
Imbower'd  vaults  of  pillar'd  palm, 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS,    i  7 1 

Imprisoning  sweets,  which,  as  they  clomb 
Heavenward,  were  stay'd  beneath  the  dome 

Of  hollow  boughs.  — A  goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Still  onward ;    and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a  lake. 
From  the  green  rivage  many  a  fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical, 
Thro'  little  crystal  arches  low 
Down  from  the  central  fountain's  flow 
Fallen  silver-chiming,  seemed  to  shake 
The  sparkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 

A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Above  thro'  many  a  bowery  turn 
A  walk  with  vary-colour'd  shells 
Wander'd  engrain'd.     On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  fragrant  marge 
From  fluted  vase,  and  brazen  urn 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large, 


I  72    RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

Some  dropping  low  their  crimson  bells 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  wide 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odour  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Far  off,  and  where  the  lemon  grove 
In  closest  coverture  upsprung. 
The  living  airs  of  middle  night 
Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung; 
Not  he :    but  something  which  possess'd 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight, 
Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love, 
Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepress'd, 

Apart  from  place,  withholding  time, 

But  flattering  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 
Slumber'd  :    the  solemn  palms  were  ranged 
Above,  unwoo'd  of  summer  wind  : 
A  sudden  splendour  from  behind 
Flush'd  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gold-green, 
And,  flowing  rapidly  between 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  TILE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.     173 

Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 
The  level  lake  with  diamond-plots 
Of  dark  and  bright.     A  lovely  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid, 


Dark-blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead, 
Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid, 
Grew  darker  from  that  under-flame : 
So,  leaping  lightly  from  the  boat. 
With  silver  anchor  left  afloat. 
In  marvel  whence  that  glory  came 
Upon  me,  as  in  sleep  I  sank 
In  cool  soft  turf  upon  the  bank, 

Entranced  with  that  place  and  time. 
So  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Thence  thro'  the  garden  I  was  drawn  — 
A  realm  of  pleasance,  many  a  mound. 
And  many  a  shadow-chequer'd  lawn 
Full  of  the  city's  stilly  sound. 
And  deep  myrrh-thickets  blowing  round 


174    RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks, 
Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn. 
Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 
Graven  with  emblems  of  the  time, 
In  honour  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

With  dazed  vision  unawares 
From  the  long  alley's  latticed  shade 
Emerged,  I  came  upon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 
Right  to  the  carven  cedarn  doors. 
Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors, 
Broad-based  flights  of  marble  stairs 
Ran  up  with  golden  balustrade. 
After  the  fashion  of  the  time. 
And  humour  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

The  fourscore  windows  all  alight 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 
A  million  tapers  flaring  bright 
From  twisted  silvers  look'd  to  shame 
The  hollow-vaulted  dark,  and  stream'd 


"  Ga^ed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone.'' 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 

Etching  from  Painting  by  W.  St.  John  Harper. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS,     l  75 

Upon  the  mooned  domes  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seem'd 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 

Of  night  new-risen,  that  marvellous  time 

To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Then  stole  I  up,  and  trancedly 

Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone. 

Serene  with  argent-lidded  eyes 

Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 

Of  darkness,  and  a  brow  of  pearl 

Tressed  with  redolent  ebony, 

In  many  a  dark  delicious  curl, 

Flowing  beneath  her  rose-hued  zone  •, 
The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time. 
Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Six  columns,  three  on  either  side. 
Pure  silver,  underpropt  a  rich 
Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 
Down-droop'd,  in  many  a  floating  fold, 
Engarlanded  and  diaper'd 


I  76    RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS, 

With  inwrought  flowers,  a  cloth  of  gold. 

Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirr'd 

With  merriment  of  kingly  pride, 
Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 
I  saw  him  —  in  his  golden  prime, 
The  Good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


ODE    TO  MEMORY.  177 


ODE   TO   MEMORY. 

ADDRESSED   TO   . 

I. 

Thou  who  stealest  fire, 
From  the  fountains  of  the  past, 
To  glorify  the  present,  oh !  haste, 

Visit  my  low  desire  ! 
Strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 
I  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

II. 

Come  not  as  thou  earnest  of  late, 

Flinging  the  gloom  of  yesternight 

On  the  white  day ;   but  robed  in  soften'd  light 

Of  orient  state. 

VVhilome  thou  camest  with  the  morning  mist, 

Even  as  a  maid,  whose  stately  brow 

The  dew-impearled  winds  of  dawn  have  kiss'd. 

When  she,  as  thou, 

Stays  on  her  floating  locks  the  lovely  freight 
VOL.  I.  — 12 


178  ODE    TO  MEMORY. 

Of  overflowing  blooms,  and  earliest  shoots 
Of  orient  green,  giving  safe  pledge  of  fruits, 
Which  in  wintertide  shall  star 
The  black  earth  with  brilliance  rare. 

III. 

Whilome  thou  earnest  with  the  morning  mist, 

And  with  the  evening  cloud, 

Showering   thy   gleaned   wealth    into  my  open 

breast 
(Those  peerless  flowers  which  in  the  rudest  wind 
Never  grow  sere, 

When  rooted  in  the  garden  of  the  mind. 
Because  they  are  the  earliest  of  the  year). 
Nor  was  the  night  thy  shroud. 
In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken  rest 
Thou  leddest  by  the  hand  thine  infant  Hope. 
The  eddying  of  her  garments  caught  from  thee 
The  light  of  thy  great  presence ;   and  the  cope 
Of  the  half-attain'd  futurity, 
Tho'  deep  not  fathomless, 

Was  cloven  with  the  million  stars  which  tremble 
O'er  the  deep  mind  of  dauntless  infancy. 
Small  thought  was  there  of  life's  distress; 


"  Thou  leddest  by  the  hand  thine  infant  Hope." 

Ode  to  Memory. 


Photo-Etching  from  Painting  by  Maud  Humphrey. 


ODE    TO   MEMORY.  1 79 

For  sure  she  deem'd  no  mist  of  earth  could  dull 
Those  spirit-thrilling  eyes  so  keen  and  beautiful: 
Sure  she  was  nigher  to  heaven's  spheres, 
Listening  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years. 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

IV. 

Come  forth,  I  charge  thee,  arise, 

Thou  of  the  many  tongues,  the  myriad  eyes! 

Thou  comest  not  with  shows  of  flaunting  vines 

Unto  mine  inner  eye, 

Divinest  Memory ! 

Thou  wert  not  nursed  by  the  waterfall 

Which  ever  sounds  and  shines, 

A  pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 

Of  purple  cliffs,  aloof  descried : 

Come  from  the  woods  that  belt  the  gray  hillside, 

The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 

That  stand  beside  my  father's  door. 

And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 

To  purl  o'er  matted  cress  and  ribbed  sand, 


l8o  ODE    TO  MEMORY. 

Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves, 

Drawing  into  his  narrow  earthen  urn, 

In  every  elbow  and  turn, 

The  filter'd  tribute  of  the  rough  woodland, 

O  hither  lead  thy  feet ! 

Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong  bleat 

Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled  folds, 

Upon  the  ridged  wolds, 

When  the  first  matin-song  hath  waken'd  loud 

Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn, 

What  time  the  amber  morn 

Forth  gushes  from  beneath  a  low-hung  cloud. 

V. 

Large  dowries  doth  the  raptured  eye 

To  the  young  spirit  present 

When  first  she  is  wed  ; 

And  like  a  bride  of  old 

In  triumph  led. 

With  music  and  sweet  showers 

Of  festal  flowers. 

Unto  the  dwelling  she  must  sway. 

Well  hast  thou  done,  great  artist  Memory, 

In  setting  round  thy  first  experiment 


ODE    TO  MEMORY.  l8l 

With  royal  frame-work  of  wrought  gold  ; 

Needs  must  thou  dearly  love  thy  first  essay, 

And  foremost  in  thy  various  gallery 

Place  it,  where  sweetest  sunlight  falls 

Upon  the  storied  walls; 

For  the  discovery 

And  newness  of  thine  art  so  pleased  thee, 

That  all  which  thou  hast  drawn  of  fairest 

Or  boldest  since,  but  lightly  weighs 

With  thee  unto  the  love  thou  bearest 

The  first-born  of  thy  genius.     Artist-like, 

Ever  retiring  thou  dost  gaze 

On  the  prime  labour  of  thine  early  days: 

No  matter  what  the  sketch  might  be ; 

Whether  the  high  field  on  the  bushless  Pike, 

Or  even  a  sand-built  ridge 

Of  heaped  hills  that  mound  the  sea. 

Overblown  with  murmurs  harsh, 

Or  even  a  lowly  cottage  whence  we  see 

Stretch'd   wide   and  wild   the  waste   enormous 

marsh, 
Where  from  the  frequent  bridge. 
Like  emblems  of  infinity, 
The  trenched  waters  run  from  sky  to  sky; 


1 82  ODE    TO  MEMORY. 

Or  a  garden  bower'd  close 

With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose, 

Long  alleys  falling  down  to  twilight  grots, 

Or  opening  upon  level  plots 

Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 

Purple-spiked  lavender: 

Whither  in  after  life  retired 

From  brawling  storms, 

From  weary  wind. 

With  youthful  fancy  re-inspired, 

We  may  hold  converse  with  all  forms 

Of  the  many-sided  mind. 

And  those  whom  passion  hath  not  blinded, 

Subtle-thoughted,  myriad-minded. 

My  friend,  with  you  to  live  alone, 
Were  how  much  better  than  to  own 
A  crown,  a  sceptre,  and  a  throne  ! 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity, 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


SOA'G.  183 


SONG. 

I. 

A  SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hours, 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers : 

To  himself  he  talks ; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly. 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and  sigh 

In  the  walks ; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy  stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers  : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock. 

Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 

II. 
The  air  is  damp,  and  hush'd,  and  close, 
As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh  repose 

An  hour  before  death ; 
My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul  grieves 
At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting  leaves, 


l84  SONG. 

And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath, 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 

Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly  ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 

Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


"And  like  a  bride  of  old 
In  triumph  led^ 

Ode  to  Memory. 

Photogravure  from  painting  by  Louis  Meynelle. 


A    CHARACTER.  185 


A    CHARACTER. 

With  a  half-glance  upon  the  sky 
At  night  he  said,  '  The  wanderings 
Of  this  most  intricate  Universe 
Teach  me  the  nothingness  of  things,'  — 
Yet  could  not  all  creation  pierce 
Beyond  the  bottom  of  his  eye. 

He  spake  of  beauty  :  that  the  dull 

Saw  no  divinity  in  grass, 

Life  in  dead  stones,  or  spirit  in  air; 

Then  looking  as  't  were  in  a  glass, 

He  smooth'd  his  chin  and  sleek'd  his  hair. 

And  said  the  earth  was  beautiful. 

He  spake  of  virtue  :  not  the  gods 
More  purely,  when  they  wish  to  charm 
Pallas  and  Juno  sitting  by: 
And  with  a  sweeping  of  the  arm, 
And  a  lack-lustre  dead-blue  eye, 
Devolved  his  rounded  periods. 


1 86  A    CHARACTER. 

Most  delicately  hour  by  hour 
He  canvass'd  human  mysteries, 
And  trod  on  silk,  as  if  the  winds 
Blew  his  own  praises  in  his  eyes, 
And  stood  aloof  from  other  minds 
In  impotence  of  fancied  power. 

With  lips  depress'd  as  he  were  meek, 
Himself  unto  himself  he  sold  : 
Upon  himself  himself  did  feed : 
Quiet,  dispassionate,  and  cold, 
And  other  than  his  form  of  creed. 
With  chisell'd  features  clear  and  sleek. 


THE  POET.  187 


THE   POET. 

The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born, 

With  golden  stars  above  ; 
Dower'd   with    the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of 
scorn, 
The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  thro'  life  and  death,  thro'  good  and  ill. 

He  saw  thro'  his  own  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will. 
An  open  scroll, 

Before  him  lay  :  with  echoing  feet  he  threaded 

The  secretest  walks  of  fame  : 
The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts  were  headed 
And  wing'd  with  flame, 

Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  silver  tongue, 

And  of  so  fierce  a  flight. 
From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung, 
Filling  with  light 


1 88  THE  POET. 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which  bore 

Them  earthward  till  they  lit ; 
Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field  flower, 
The  fruitful  wit 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  springing  forth  anew 

Where'er  they  fell,  behold, 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance,  grew 
A  flower  all  gold, 

And  bravely  furnish'd  all  abroad  to  fling 

The  winged  shafts  of  truth. 
To  throng   with    stately  blooms  the    breathing 
spring 
Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs  with  beams, 

Tho'  one  did  fling  the  fire. 
Heaven  flow'd  upon  the  soul  in  many  dreams 
Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth,  the  world 

Like  one  great  garden  show'd, 
And  thro'  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark  upcurl'd, 
Rare  sunrise  flow'd. 


THE   POET.  189 

And  Freedom  rear'd  in  that  august  sunrise 

Her  beautiful  bold  brow, 
When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burning  eyes 
Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden  robes 

Sunn'd  by  those  orient  skies; 
But  round  about  the  circles  of  the  globes 
Of  her  keen  eyes 

And  in  her  raiment's  hem  was  traced  in  flame 

Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of  power,  —  a  sacred  name. 
And  when  she  spake, 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they  ran, 

And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thunder 
Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of  man, 
Making  earth  wonder, 

So  was  their  meaning  to  her  words.     No  sword 

Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl'd, 
But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  and  with  his  word 
She  shook  the  world. 


19^  THE  POET'S  MIND. 


THE   POET'S   MIND. 

I. 

Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind 

With  thy  shallow  wit: 
Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind ; 

For  thou  canst  not  fathom  it. 
Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever, 
Flowing  like  a  crystal  river; 
Bright  as  light,  and  clear  as  wind. 

II. 

Dark-brow'd  sophist,  come  not  anear; 

All  the  place  is  holy  ground ; 

Hollow  smile  and  frozen  sneer 

Come  not  here. 

Holy  water  will  I  pour 

Into  every  spicy  flower 

Of  the  laurel-shrubs  that  hedge  it  around. 

The  flowers  would  faint  at  your  cruel  cheer. 


THE  POET'S  MIND.  IQI 

In  your  eye  there  is  death, 

There  is  frost  in  your  breath 

Which  would  blight  the  plants. 

Where  you  stand  you  cannot  hear 

From  the  groves  within 

The  wild-bird's  din. 

In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the  merry  bird  chants. 

It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you  came  in. 

In  the  middle  leaps  a  fountain 

Like  sheet  lightning, 

Ever  brightening 

With  a  low  melodious  thunder; 

All  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 

From  the  brain  of  the  purple  mountain 

Which  stands  in  the  distance  yonder : 

It  springs  on  a  level  of  bowery  lawn, 

And  the  mountain  draws  it  from  Heaven  above. 

And  it  sings  a  song  of  undying  love  ; 

And  yet,  tho'  its  voice  be  so  clear  and  full, 

You  never  would  hear  it,  your  ears  are  so  dull ; 

So  keep  where  you  are :  you  are  foul  with  sin ; 

It  would  shrink  to  the  earth  if  you  came  in. 


192  THE  SEA-FAIRIES. 


THE   SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow  sail'd  the  weary  mariners  and  saw, 
Betwixt  the  green  brink  and  the  running  foam, 
Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms  prest 
To  little  harps  of  gold ;   and  while  they  mused, 
Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear, 
Shrill  music  reach'd  them  on  the  middle  sea. 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither  away?  fly 

no  more. 
Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field,  and  the 

happy  blossoming  shore? 
Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  fountain  calls : 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  waterfalls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea : 
Out  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 
They  freshen  the  silvery-crimson  shells. 
And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover-hill  swells 
Higfh  over  the  full-toned  sea: 


THE  SEA-FAIRIES.  193 

O  hither,  come  hither  and  furl  your  sails, 

Come  hither  to  me  and  to  me : 

Hither,  come  hither  and  frolic  and  play; 

Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  wails ; 

We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day : 

Mariner,  mariner,  furl  your  sails. 

For  here  are  the  blissful  downs  and  dales, 

And  merrily,  merrily  carol  the  gales, 

And  the  spangle  dances  in  bight  and  bay. 

And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on  the  land 

Over  the  islands  free ; 

And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of  the  sand ; 

Hither,  come  hither  and  see ; 

And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising  wave, 

And  sweet  is  the  colour  of  cove  and  cave, 

And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be : 

O  hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our  lords, 

For  merry  brides  are  we : 

We   will   kiss   sweet    kisses,    and   speak   sweet 

words : 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubilee : 
O  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
VOL.  I.  — 13 


194  THE  SEA-FAIRIES. 

When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the  golden 
chords 

Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 

Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a  shore 

All  the  world  o'er,  all  the  world  o'er? 

Whither  away?  listen  and  stay:  mariner,  mari- 
ner, fly  no  more. 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE.  195 


THE   DESERTED   HOUSE. 

I. 
Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away 

Side  by  side, 

Leaving  door  and  windows  wide : 
Careless  tenants 'they ! 

II. 

All  within  is  dark  as  night: 
In  the  windows  is  no  light ; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door, 
So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 

III. 

Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close, 

Or  thro'  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 


196  THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 

IV. 

Come  away :   no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 

The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth, 
And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 

V. 
Come  away :   for  Life  and  Thought 

Here  no  longer  dwell, 
But  in  a  city  glorious  — 
A  great  and  distant  city  —  have  bought 

A  mansion  incorruptible. 
Would  they  could  have  stayed  with  us ! 


THE  DYING  SWAN.  1 97 


THE  DYING  SWAN. 

I. 

The  plain  was  grassy,  wild,  and  bare. 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air, 
Which  had  built  up  everywhere 
An  under-roof  of  doleful  gray. 
With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 
Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan, 
And  loudly  did  lament. 
It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 
Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on. 
And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went. 

II. 
Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose. 
And  white  against  the  cold-white  sky, 
Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 
One  willow  over  the  river  wept, 
And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh ; 


198  THE  DYING  SWAN. 

Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow, 

Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will, 

And  far  thro'  the  marish  green  and  still 

The  tangled  water-courses  slept, 

Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and  yellow. 

III. 

The  wild  swan's  death-hymn  took  the  soul 

Of  that  waste  place  with  joy 

Hidden  in  sorrow :   at  first  to  the  ear 

The  warble  was  low,  and  full  and  clear ; 

And  floating  about  the  under-sky, 

Prevailing  in  weakness,  the  coronach  stole 

Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear; 

But  anon  her  awful  jubilant  voice, 

With  a  music  strange  and  manifold, 

Flow'd  forth  on  a  carol  free  and  bold ; 

As  when  a  mighty  people  rejoice 

With  shawms,  and  with  cymbals,  and  harps  of 

gold, 
And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is  roll'd 
Thro'  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar, 
To  the   shepherd    who   watcheth   the    evening 

star. 


THE  DYING  SWAN.  199 

And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clambering  weeds, 
And  the  willow-branches  hoar  and  dank, 
And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing  reeds, 
And  the  wave-worn  horns  of  the  echoing  bank. 
And  the  silvery  marish-flowers  that  throng 
The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among, 
Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 


200  A  DIRGE. 


A  DIRGE. 

I. 

Now  is  done  thy  long  day's  work ; 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breast, 
Fold  thine  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 

Let  them  rave. 
Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


II. 

Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander ; 
Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 
Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


A   DIRGE.  20I 

III. 

Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  bed ; 
Chaunteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny? 

Let  them  rave. 
Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
From  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

IV. 

Crocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee ; 

The  woodbine  and  eglatere 

Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor's  tear. 

Let  them  rave. 
Rain  makes  music  in  the  tree 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

V. 
Round  thee  blow,  self-pleached  deep, 
Bramble  roses,  faint  and  pale, 
And  long  purples  of  the  dale. 
Let  them  rave. 


202  A   DIRGE. 

These  in  every  shower  creep 
Thro'  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 

VI. 
The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine, 
The  frail  bluebell  peereth  over 
Rare  broidry  of  the  purple  clover. 

Let  them  rave. 
Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine, 
As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

VII. 
Wild  words  wander  here  and  there : 
God's  great  gift  of  speech  abused 
Makes  thy  memory  confused : 

But  let  them  rave. 
The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


LOVE   AND  DEATH.  203 


LOVE  AND   DEATH. 

What   time   the   mighty  moon  was   gathering 

light 
Love  paced  the  thymy  plots  of  Paradise, 
And  all  about  him  roll'd  his  lustrous  eyes ; 
When,  turning  round  a  cassia,  full  in  view, 
Death,  walking  all  alone  beneath  a  yew, 
And  talking  to  himself,  first  met  his  sight : 
*  You  must   begone,'  said    Death,  '  these  walks 

are  mine.' 
Love   wept    and    spread     his    sheeny   vans    for 

flight, 
Yet  ere  he  parted  said,  '  This  hour  is  thine : 
Thou  art  the  shadow  of  life,  and  as  the  tree 
Stands  in  the  sun  and  shadows  all  beneath, 
So  in  the  light  of  great  eternity 
Life  eminent  creates  the  shade  of  death ; 
The  shadow  passeth  when  the  tree  shall  fall. 
But  I  shall  reign  for  ever  over  all.' 


204  THE  BALLAD   OF  ORIANA. 


THE  BALLAD   OF   ORIANA. 

My  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 

Oriana. 
There  is  no  rest  for  me  below, 

Oriana. 
When  the  long  dun  wolds  are  ribb'd  with  snow, 
And  loud  the  Norland  whirlwinds  blow^ 

Oriana, 
Alone  I  wander  to  and  fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  growing, 

Oriana, 
At  midnight  the  cock  was  crowing, 

Oriana : 
Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing. 
We  heard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 

Oriana; 
Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing, 

Oriana. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  OR/ANA.  205 

In  the  yew-wood  black  as  night, 

Oriana, 
Ere  I  rode  into  the  fight, 

Oriana, 
While  blissful  tears  blinded  my  sight 
By  star-shine  and  by  moonlight, 

Oriana, 
I  to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana. 

She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana : 
She  watch'd  my  crest  among  them  all, 

Oriana: 
She  saw  me  fight,  she  heard  me  call, 
When  forth  there  stept  a  foeman  tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana. 

The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana: 
The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana: 


206  THE  BALLAD   OF  ORIANA. 

The  damned  arrow  glanced  aside, 

And  pierced  thy  heart,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana ! 
Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana ! 

Oh !   narrow,  narrow  was  the  space, 

Oriana. 
Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle's  brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh  !   deathful  stabs  were  dealt  apace, 
The  battle  deepen'd  in  its  place, 

Oriana; 
But  I  was  down  upon  my  face, 

Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana ! 
How  could  I  rise  and  come  away, 

Oriana? 
How  could  I  look  upon  the  day? 
They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana  — 
They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 

Oriana. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  ORIANA.  207 

O  breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 
Oriana ! 

0  pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak, 
And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek, 

Oriana : 
What  wantest  thou  ?   whom  dost  thou  seek, 

Oriana? 

1  cry  aloud :   none  hear  my  cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou  comest  atween  me  and  the  skies, 

Oriana. 
I  feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within  thy  heart  my  arrow  lies, 

Oriana. 

O  cursed  hand  !  O  cursed  blow ! 

Oriana ! 
O  happy  thou  that  liest  low, 

Oriana ! 


2o8  THE  BALLAD   OF  ORIANA. 

All  night  the  silence  seems  to  flow 
Beside  me  in  my  utter  woe, 

Oriana. 
A  weary,  weary  way  I  go, 

Oriana. 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the  sea, 

Oriana, 
I  walk,  I  dare  not  think  of  thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou  liest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
I  dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee, 

Oriana. 
I  hear  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 

Oriana. 


CIRCUMSTANCE.  209 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two  children  in  two  neighbour  villages 
Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  heathy  leas ; 
Two  strangers  meeting  at  a  festival ; 
Two  lovers  whispering  by  an  orchard  wall ; 
Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with  golden  ease ; 
Two  graves  grass-green  beside  a  gray  church- 
tower, 
Wash'd  with  still  rains  and  daisy  blossomed ; 
Two  children  in  one  hamlet  born  and  bred ; 
So  runs  the  round  of  life  from  hour  to  hour. 


VOL.  I.  — 14 


210  THE  MERMAN. 


THE   MERMAN. 

I. 

Who  would  be 
A  merman  bold, 
Sitting  alone, 
Singing  alone 
Under  the  sea, 
With  a  crown  of  gold. 
On  a  throne? 

II. 
I  would  be  a  merman  bold ; 
I  would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the  day; 
I  would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a  voice  of  power ; 
But  at  night  I  would  roam  abroad  and  play 
With  the  mermaids  in  and  out  of  the  rocks, 
Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white  sea-flower ; 
And  holding  them  back  by  their  flowing  locks 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd  me 


THE  MERMAN.  211 

Laughingly,  laughingly; 
And  then  we  would  wander  away,  away 
To  the  pale-green  sea-groves  straight  and  high, 

Chasing  each  other  merrily. 

III. 
There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star; 
But   the   wave   would    make    music    above   us 

afar  — 
Low  thunder  and  light  in  the  magic  night  — 

Neither  moon  nor  star. 
We  would  call  aloud  in  the  dreamy  dells, 
Call  to  each  other  and  whoop  and  cry 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily; 
They  would   pelt  me  with  starry  spangles  and 

shells, 
Laughing  and  clapping  their  hands  between, 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily : 
But  I  would  throw  to  them  back  in  mine 
Turkis  and  agate  and  almondine: 
Then  leaping  out  upon  them  unseen 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd  me 


212  THE   MERMAN 

Laughingly,  laughingly. 
Oh !  what  a  happy  life  were  mine 
Under  the  hollow-hung  ocean  green  ! 
Soft  are  the  moss-beds  under  the  sea; 
We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 


"  l4^ho  would  be 
A  Mermaid  fair, 
Singing  alone. 
Combing  her  bair?" 

The  Mermaid. 


Photo-Etching-  from  Painting  by  F.  S.  Ciiurch. 


THE  MERMAID.  213 


THE   MERMAID. 

I. 
Who  would  be 
A  mermaid  fair, 
Singing  alone, 
Combing  her  hair 
Under  the  sea, 
In  a  golden  curl 
With  a  comb  of  pearl, 
On  a  throne? 

II. 

I  would  be  a  mermaid  fair; 
I  would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  of  the  day ; 
With  a  comb  of  pearl  I  would  comb  my  hair; 
And  still  as  I  comb'd  I  would  sing  and  say, 
'  Who  is  it  loves  me?  who  loves  not  me? ' 
I  would  comb  my  hair  till  my  ringlets  would  fall 

Low  adown,  low  adown. 
From  under  my  starry  sea-bud  crown 


214  THE  MERMAID. 

Low  adown  and  around, 
And  I  should  look  like  a  fountain  of  gold 
Springing  alone 

With  a  shrill  inner  sound, 
Over  the  throne 

In  the  midst  of  the  hall; 
Till  that  great  sea-snake  under  the  sea 
From  his  coiled  sleeps  in  the  central  deeps 
Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenfold 
Round  the  hall  where  I  sate,  and  look  in  at  the 

gate 
With  his  large  calm  eyes  for  the  love  of  me ; 
And  all  the  mermen  under  the  sea 
Would  feel  their  immortality 
Die  in  their  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 

III. 

But  at  night  I  would  wander  away,  away, 

I    would    fling   on    each    side    my  low   flowing 

locks, 
And  lightly  vault  from  the  throne  and  play 
With  the  mermen  in  and  out  of  the  rocks ; 
We  would  run  to  and  fro,  and  hide  and  seek, 
On  the  broad  sea-wolds  in  the  crimson  shells, 


THE  MERMAID.  215 

Whose  silvery  spikes  are  nighest  the  sea. 
But  if  any  came  near  I  would  call,  and  shriek, 
And  adown  the  steep  like  a  wave  I  would  leap 
From  the  diamond-ledges  that  jut  from  the  dells  ; 
For  I  would  not  be  kiss'd  by  all  who  would  list, 
Of  the  bold  merry  mermen  under  the  sea; 
They  would  sue  me,  and  woo  me,  and  flatter  me, 
In  the  purple  twilights  under  the  sea; 
But  the  king  of  them  all  would  carry  me, 
Woo  me,  and  win  me,  and  marry  me. 
In  the  branching  jaspers  under  the  sea; 
Then  all  the  dry  pied  things  that  be 
In  the  hueless  mosses  under  the  sea 
Would  curl  round  my  silver  feet  silently, 
All  looking  up  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  if  I  should  carol  aloud,  from  aloft 
All  things  that  are  forked,  and  horned,  and  soft 
Would  lean  out  from  the  hollow  sphere  of  the 

sea. 
All  looking  down  for  the  love  of  me. 


2i6  ADELINE. 


ADELINE. 

I. 

Mystery  of  mysteries, 
Faintly  smiling  Adeline, 
Scarce  of  earth  nor  all  divine, 
Nor  unhappy,  nor  at  rest, 
But  beyond  expression  fair 
With  thy  floating  flaxen  hair; 
Thy  rose-lips  and  full  blue  eyes 
Take  the  heart  from  out  my  breast. 
Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline? 

II. 

Whence  that  aery  bloom  of  thine. 
Like  a  lily  which  the  sun 

Looks  thro'  in  his  sad  decline, 
And  a  rose-bush  leans  upon, 

Thou  that  faintly  smilest  still, 

As  a  Naiad  in  a  well. 


ADELINE.  2 1 7 

Looking  at  the  set  of  day, 
Or  a  phantom  two  hours  old 

Of  a  maiden  past  away, 
Ere  the  placid  lips  be  cold? 
Wherefore  those  faint  smiles  of  thine, 
Spiritual  Adeline? 


III. 

What  hope  or  fear  or  joy  is  thine? 
Who  talketh  with  thee,  Adeline? 

For  sure  thou  art  not  all  alone. 
Do  beating  hearts  of  salient  springs 

Keep  measure  with  thine  own? 

Hast  thou  heard  the  butterflies 
What  they  say  betwixt  their  wings? 
Or  in  stillest  evenings 
With  what  voice  the  violet  woos 
To  his  heart  the  silver  dews? 

Or  when  little  airs  arise, 
How  the  merry  bluebell  rings 
To  the  mosses  underneath? 
Hast  thou  look'd  upon  the  breath 

Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise? 


2 1  8  ADELINE. 

Wherefore  that  faint  smile  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 

IV. 

Some  honey-converse  feeds  thy  mind, 
Some  spirit  of  a  crimson  rose 
In  love  with  thee  forgets  to  close 
His  curtains,  wasting  odorous  sighs 
All  night  long  on  darkness  blind. 
What  aileth  thee?  whom  waitest  thou 
With  thy  soften'd,  shadow'd  brow, 
And  those  dew-lit  eyes  of  thine, 
Thou  faint  smiler,  Adeline  ? 

V. 

Lovest  thou  the  doleful  wind 
When  thou  gazest  at  the  skies  ? 

Doth  the  low-tongued  Orient 

Wander  from  the  side  of  the  morn. 
Dripping  with  Sabaean  spice 

On  thy  pillow,  lowly  bent 
With  melodious  airs  lovelorn, 

Breathing  Light  against  thy  face. 


ADELINE.  219 

While  his  locks  a-drooping  twined 
Round  thy  neck  in  subtle  ring 
Make  a  carcanet  of  rays, 

And  ye  talk  together  still, 
In  the  language  wherewith  Spring 

Letters  cowslips  on  the  hill  ? 
Hence  that  look  and  smile  of  thine. 
Spiritual  Adeline. 


220  MARGARET. 


MARGARET. 

I. 

O  SWEET  pale  Margaret, 

O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
What  lit  your  eyes  with  tearful  power. 
Like  moonlight  on  a  falling  shower? 
Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 
Of  pensive  thought  and  aspect  pale. 
Your  melancholy  sweet  and  frail 
As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo-flower? 
From  the  westward-winding  flood. 
From  the  evening-lighted  wood, 
From  all  things  outward  you  have  won 
A  tearful  grace,  as  tho'  you  stood 
Between  the  rainbow  and  the  sun. 
The  very  smile  before  you  speak, 
That  dimples  your  transparent  cheek. 
Encircles  all  the  heart,  and  feedeth 
The  senses  with  a  still  delight 


MARGARET.  221 

Of  dainty  sorrow  without  sound, 
Like  the  tender  amber  round 
Which  the  moon  about  her  spreadeth, 
Moving  thro'  a  fleecy  night. 

II. 

You  love,  remaining  peacefully, 
To  hear  the  murmur  of  the  strife. 
But  enter  not  the  toil  of  life. 
Your  spirit  is  the  calmed  sea. 
Laid  by  the  tumult  of  the  fight. 
You  are  the  evening  star,  alway 
Remaining  betwixt  dark  and  bright : 
Lull'd  echoes  of  laborious  day 
Come  to  you,  gleams  of  mellow  light 
Float  by  you  on  the  verge  of  night. 

III. 

What  can  it  matter,  Margaret, 
What  songs  below  the  waning  stars 
The  lion-heart,  Plantagenet, 
Sang  looking  thro'  his  prison  bars? 
Exquisite  Margaret,  who  can  tell 
The  last  wild  thought  of  Chatelet, 


2  22  MARGARET. 

Just  ere  the  falling  axe  did  part 

The  burning  brain  from  the  true  heart, 

Even  in  her  sight  he  loved  so  well? 

IV. 

A  fairy  shield  your  Genius  made 
And  gave  you  on  your  natal  day. 
Your  sorrow,  only  sorrow's  shade, 
Keeps  real  sorrow  far  away. 
You  move  not  in  such  solitudes, 
You  are  not  less  divine, 
But  more  human  in  your  moods, 
Than  your  twin-sister,  Adeline. 
Your  hair  is  darker,  and  your  eyes 
Touch'd  with  a  somewhat  darker  hue. 
And  less  aerially  blue, 
But  ever  trembling  thro'  the  dew 
Of  dainty-woeful  sympathies. 

V. 

O  sweet  pale  Margaret, 

O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
Come  down,  come  down,  and  hear  me  speak 
Tie  up  the  ringlets  on  your  cheek: 


MARGARET.  223 

The  sun  is  just  about  to  set, 

The  arching  limes  are  tall  and  shady, 

And  faint,  rainy  lights  are  seen, 

Moving  in  the  leavy  beech. 

Rise  from  the  feast  of  sorrow,  lady. 

Where  all  day  long  you  sit  between 

Joy  and  woe,  and  whisper  each. 

Or  only  look  across  the  lawn, 

Look  out  below  your  bower-eaves, 

Look  down,  and  let  your  blue  eyes  dawn 

Upon  me  thro'  the  jasmine-leaves. 


224  ROSALIND. 


ROSALIND. 

I. 

My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

My  frolic  falcon,  with  bright  eyes, 

Whose  free  delight,  from  any  height  of  rapid 

flight, 
Stoops  at  all  game  that  wing  the  skies, 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 
My  bright-eyed,  wild-eyed  falcon,  whither, 
Careless  both  of  wind  and  weather. 
Whither  fly  ye,  what  game  spy  ye, 
Up  or  down  the  streaming  wind? 

II. 
The  quick  lark's  closest-caroll'd  strains, 
The  shadow  rushing  up  the  sea, 
The  lightning  flash  atween  the  rains. 
The  sunlight  driving  down  the  lea. 
The  leaping  stream,  the  very  wind. 
That  will  not  stay,  upon  his  way. 
To  stoop  the  cowslip  to  the  plains. 


ROSALIXD.  225 

Is  not  so  clear  and  bold  and  free 
As  you,  my  falcon  Rosalind. 
You  care  not  for  another's  pains, 
Because  you  are  the  soul  of  joy, 
Bright  metal  all  without  alloy. 
Life  shoots  and  glances  thro'  your  veins. 
And  flashes  off  a  thousand  ways. 
Thro'  lips  and  eyes  in  subtle  rays. 
Your  hawk-eyes  are  keen  and  bright, 
Keen  with  triumph,  watching  still 
To  pierce  me  thro'  with  pointed  light ; 
But  oftentimes  they  flash  and  glitter 
Like  sunshine  on  a  dancing  rill, 
And  your  words  are  seeming-bitter, 
Sharp  and  few,  but  seeming-bitter 
From  excess  of  swift  delight. 

III. 

Come  down,  come  home,  my  Rosalind, 

My  gay  young  hawk,  my  Rosalind : 

Too  long  you  keep  the  upper  skies ; 

Too  long  you  roam  and  wheel  at  will ; 

But  we  must  hood  your  random  eyes, 

That  care  not  whom  they  kill, 
VOL.  I.  —  15 


2  26  ROSALIND. 

And  your  cheek,  whose  brilHant  hue 

Is  so  sparkhng-fresh  to  view, 

Some  red  heath-flower  in  the  dew, 

Touch'd  with  sunrise.     We  must  bind 

And  keep  you  fast,  my  Rosalind, 

Fast,  fast,  my  wild-eyed  Rosalind, 

And  clip  your  wings,  and  make  you  love : 

When  we  have  lured  you  from  above. 

And  that  delight  of  frolic  flight,  by  day  or  night, 

From  North  to  South, 

We  'II  bind  you  fast  in  silken  cords, 

And  kiss  away  the  bitter  words 

From  off  your  rosy  mouth. 


ELEANORE.  227 


ELEANORE. 

I. 
Thy  dark  eyes  open'd  not, 
Nor  first  reveal'd  themselves  to  English  air, 
For  there  is  nothing  here 

Which,  from  the  outward  to  the  inward  brought, 
Moulded  thy  baby  thought. 
Far  off  from  human  neighbourhood. 
Thou  wert  born,  on  a  summer  morn, 
A  mile  beneath  the  cedar-wood. 
Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not  fann'd 
With  breezes  from  our  oaken  glades. 
But  thou  wert  nursed  in  some  delicious  land 
Of  lavish  lights  and  floating  shades : 
And  flattering  thy  childish  thought 
The  oriental  fairy  brought, 
At  the  moment  of  thy  birth. 
From  old  well-heads  of  haunted  rills, 
And  the  hearts  of  purple  hills, 


!8  ELEANORS. 

And  shadow'd  coves  on  a  sunny  shore. 
The  choicest  wealth  of  all  the  earth, 
Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore, 
To  deck  thy  cradle,  Eleanore. 

II. 

Or  the  yellow-banded  bees, 

Thro'  half-open  lattices 

Coming  in  the  scented  breeze. 

Fed  thee,  a  child,  lying  alone, 

With  whitest  honey  in  fairy  gardens  cull'd,  - 

A  glorious  child,  dreaming  alone. 

In  silk-soft  folds,  upon  yielding  down, 

With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 

Into  dreamful  slumber  luU'd. 

III. 

Who  may  minister  to  thee? 
Summer  herself  should  minister 
To  thee,  with  fruitage  golden-rinded 
On  golden  salvers,  or  it  may  be, 
Youngest  Autumn,  in  a  bower 
Grape-thicken'd  from  the  light,  and  blinded 
With  many  a  deep-hued  bell-like  flower 


ELEANORE.  229 

Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 
Sleepeth  over  all  the  heaven, 
And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 
All  along  the  shadowing  shore, 
Crimsons  over  an  inland  mere, 
Eleanore ! 

IV. 

How  may  full-sail'd  verse  express, 

How  may  measured  words  adore 

The  full-flowing  harmony 

Of  thy  swan-like  stateliness, 
Eleanore? 

The  luxuriant  symmetry 

Of  thy  floating  gracefulness, 

Eleanore? 
Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine, 
Every  lineament  divine, 

Eleanore, 
And  the  steady  sunset  glow, 
That  stays  upon  thee?     For  in  thee 
Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing  single; 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 
From  one  censer  in  one  shrine, 
Thought  and  motion  mingle, 


230  ELEANORE. 


Mingle  ever.     Motions  flow 


To  one  another,  even  as  tho' 

They  were  modulated  so 

To  an  unheard  melody, 

Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a  sweep 

Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 

Drawn  from  each  other  mellow-deep ; 

Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore? 


V. 

I  stand  before  thee,  Eleanore; 
I  see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold, 
Daily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  the  while 
Slowly,  as  from  a  cloud  of  gold. 
Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile^ 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  whene'er 
The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.     I  would  I  were 
So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies. 
To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore. 
Gazing  on  thee  for  evermore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore ! 


ELEANORE.  231 

VI. 

Sometimes,  with  most  intensity- 
Gazing,  I  seem  to  see 

Thought  folded  over  thought,  smiling  asleep, 
Slowly  awaken'd,  grow  so  full  and  deep 
In  thy  large  eyes,  that,  overpower'd  quite, 
I  cannot  veil,  or  droop  my  sight, 
But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light: 
As  tho'  a  star,  in  inmost  heaven  set, 
Even  while  we  gaze  on  it. 
Should  slowly  round  his  orb,  and  slowly  grow 
To  a  full  face,  there  like  a  sun  remain 
Fix'd  —  then  as  slowly  fade  again, 
And  draw  itself  to  what  it  was  before ; 
So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow, 
Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 
In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Eleanore. 

VII. 

As  thunder-clouds  that,  hung  on  high, 
Roof 'd  the  world  with  doubt  and  fear, 
Floating  thro'  an  evening  atmosphere. 
Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky ; 


232  ELEANORE. 

In  thee  all  passion  becomes  passionless, 
Touch'd  by  thy  spirit's  mellowness, 
Losing  his  fire  and  active  might 
In  a  silent  meditation, 
Falling  into  a  still  delight, 
And  luxury  of  contemplation : 
As  waves  that  up  a  quiet  cove 
Rolling  slide,  and  lying  still 
Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will ; 
Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move. 
Pressing  up  against  the  land, 
With  motions  of  the  outer  sea: 
And  the  selfsame  influence 
Controlleth  all  the  soul  and  sense 
Of  Passion  gazing  upon  thee. 
His  bow-string  slacken'd,  languid  Love, 
Leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand. 
Droops  both  his  wings,  regarding  thee, 
And  so  would  languish  evermore. 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore. 

VIII. 

But  when  I  see  thee  roam,  with  tresses  unconfined, 
While  the  amorous,  odorous  wind 


ELBA  NO  RE.  233 

Breathes  low  between  the  sunset  and  the  moon  ; 

Or,  in  a  shadowy  saloon, 

On  silken  cushions  half  reclined; 

I  watch  thy  grace ;   and  in  its  place 

My  heart  a  charmed  slumber  keeps, 

While  I  muse  upon  thy  face ; 

And  a  languid  fire  creeps 

Thro'  my  veins  to  all  my  frame, 

Dissolvingly  and  slowly :    soon 

From  thy  rose-red  lips  MY  name 

Floweth ;    and  then,  as  in  a  swoon. 

With  dinning  sound  my  ears  are  rife, 

My  tremulous  tongue  faltereth, 

I  lose  my  colour,  I  lose  my  breath, 

I  drink  the  cup  of  a  costly  death, 

Brimm'd  with  delirious  draughts  of  warmest  life. 

I  die  with  my  delight,  before 

I  hear  what  I  would  hear  from  thee ; 

Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  me, 

I  would  be  dying  evermore, 

So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 


234      MV  LIFE  IS  FULL   OF  WEARY  DAYS. 


I. 

My  life  is  full  of  weary  days, 

But  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof, 

Nor  wander'd  into  other  ways : 

I  have  not  lack'd  thy  mild  reproof, 

Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise. 

And  now  shake  hands  across  the  brink 
Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I  go  : 

Shake  hands  once  more :  I  cannot  sink 
So  far  —  far  down,  but  I  shall  know 
Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 

II. 

When  in  the  darkness  over  me 

The  four-handed  mole  shall  scrape, 

Plant  thou  no  dusky  cypress-tree, 

Nor  wreathe  thy  cap  with  doleful  crape, 
But  pledge  me  in  the  flowing  grape. 


MY  LIFE  IS  FULL    OF   WEARY  DAYS.      235 

And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood 
Grow  green  beneath  the  showery  gray, 

And  rugged  barks  begin  to  bud, 

And  thro'  damp  holts  new-flush'd  with  may 
Ring  sudden  scritches  of  the  jay, 

Then  let  wise  Nature  work  her  will, 
And  on  my  clay  her  darnel  grow; 

Come  only  when  the  days  are  still, 
And  at  my  headstone  whisper  low, 
And  tell  me  if  the  woodbines  blow. 


236  EARLY  SONNETS. 


EARLY  SONNETS. 


TO . 

As   when   with    downcast    eyes   we    muse    and 

brood, 
And  ebb  into  a  former  Hfe,  or  seem 
To  lapse  far  back  in  some  confused  dream 
To  states  of  mystical  similitude, 
If  one  but  speaks  or  hems  or  stirs  his  chair, 
Ever  the  wonder  waxeth  more  and  more. 
So  that  we  say,  *  All  this  hath  been  before, 
All  this  hath  been,  I  know  not  when  or  where ;  ' 
So,  friend,  when  first  I  look'd  upon  your  face. 
Our   thought    gave    answer    each   to   each,    so 

true  — 
Opposed  mirrors  each  reflecting  each  — 
That  tho'  I  knew  not  in  what  time  or  place, 
Methought  that  I  had  often  met  with  you. 
And  either  lived  in  cither's  heart  and  speech. 


EARLY  SONNETS.  237 

II. 

TO   J.    M.    K. 

My  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee  —  thou  wilt  be 

A  latter  Luther,  and  a  soldier-priest 

To  scare  church-harpies  from  the  master's  feast ; 

Our  dusted  velvets  have  much  need  of  thee : 

Thou  art  no  sabbath-drawler  of  old  saws, 

Distill'd  from  some  worm-canker'd  homily; 

But  spurr'd  at  heart  with  fieriest  energy 

To  embattail  and  to  wall  about  thy  cause 

With  iron-worded  proof,  hating  to  hark 

The  humming  of  the  drowsy  pulpit-drone 

Half  God's    good  sabbath,  while    the  worn-out 

clerk 
Brow-beats  his  desk  below.     Thou  from  a  throne 
Mounted  in  heaven  wilt  shoot  into  the  dark 
Arrows  of  lightnings.     I  will  stand  and  mark. 


238  EARLY  SONNETS. 


III. 

Mine  be  the  strength  of  spirit,  full  and  free, 
Like  some  broad  river  rushing  down  alone, 
With  the    selfsame    impulse  wherewith  he  was 

thrown 
From  his  loud  fount  upon  the  echoing  lea; 
Which  with  increasing  might  doth  forward  flee 
By  town,  and  tower,  and  hill,  and  cape,  and  isle. 
And  in  the  middle  of  the  green  salt  sea 
Keeps  his  blue  waters  fresh  for  many  a  mile. 
Mine  be  the  power  which  ever  to  its  sway 
Will  win  the  wise  at  once,  and  by  degrees 
May  into  uncongenial  spirits  flow ; 
Even  as  the  warm  gulf-stream  of  Florida 
Floats  far  away  into  the  Northern  seas 
The  lavish  growths  of  southern  Mexico. 


EARLY  SONNE TS.  239 

IV. 

ALEXANDER. 

Warrior    of    God,   whose    strong   right    arm 

debased 
The  throne  of  Persia,  when  her  Satrap  bled 
At  Issus  by  the  Syrian  gates,  or  fled 
Beyond  the  Memmian  naphtha-pits,  disgraced 
For  ever  —  thee  (thy  pathway  sand-erased) 
ending  with  equal  crowns  two  serpents  led 
Joyful  to  that  palm-planted  fountain-fed 
Ammonian  Oasis  in  the  waste. 
There  in  a  silent  shade  of  laurel  brown 
Apart  the  Chamian  Oracle  divine 
Shelter'd  his  unapproached  mysteries : 
High  things  were  spoken  there,  unhanded  down  ; 
Only  they  saw  thee  from  the  secret  shrine 
Returning  with  hot  cheek  and  kindled  eyes. 


2 40  EARL  V  SONNE  TS. 

V. 

BUONAPARTE. 

He  thought  to  quell  the  stubborn  hearts  of  oak, 
Madman  !  —  to  chain  with  chains,  and  bind  with 

bands 
That  island  queen   who    sways  the   floods  and 

lands 
From  Ind  to  Ind,  but  in  fair  daylight  woke, 
When   from   her   wooden   walls, — lit   by   sure 

hands,  — 
With  thunders,  and    with  lightnings,   and  with 

smoke, 
Peal  after  peal,  the  British  battle  broke. 
Lulling  the  brine  against  the  Coptic  sands. 
We  taught  him  lowlier  moods,  when  Elsinore 
Heard  the  war  moan  along  the  distant  sea, 
Rocking  with  shatter'd  spars,  with  sudden  fires 
Flamed  over :   at  Trafalgar  yet  once  more 
We  taught  him  :   late  he  learned  humility 
Perforce,  like  those  whom  Gideon  school'd  with 

briers. 


EARLY  SONNETS.  24 1 

VI. 

POLAND. 

How  long,  O  God,  shall  men  be  ridden  down, 
And  trampled  under  by  the  last  and  least 
Of  men?     The  heart  of  Poland  hath  not  ceased 
To  quiver,  tho'  her  sacred  blood  doth  drown 
The  fields,  and  out  of  every  smouldering  town 
Cries  to  Thee,  lest  brute  Power  be  increased. 
Till  that  o'ergrown  Barbarian  in  the  East 
Transgress     his     ample    bound    to    some    new 

crown,  — 
Cries   to    Thee,    '  Lord,    how   long  shall    these 

things  be? 
How  long  this  icy-hearted  Muscovite 
Oppress  the  region?  '     Us,  O  Just  and  Good, 
Forgive,  who  smiled  when  she  was  torn  in  three ; 
Us,   who  stand   now,   when  we  should  aid  the 

right,  — 
A  matter  to  be  wept  with  tears  of  blood ! 

VOL.  I.  — 16 


242  EARLY  SONNETS. 


VII. 

Caress'd  or  chidden  by  the  slender  hand, 

And  singing  airy  trifles  this  or  that, 

Light  Hope  at  Beauty's  call  avouM  perch  and 

stand, 
And  run  thro'  every  change  of  sharp  and  flat ; 
And  Fancy  came  and  at  her  pillow  sat, 
When  Sleep  had  bound  her  in  his  rosy  band, 
And  chased  away  the  still-recurring  gnat, 
And  woke  her  with  a  lay  from  fairy-land. 
But  now  they  live  with  Beauty  less  and  less, 
For  Hope  is  other  Hope  and  wanders  far. 
Nor  cares  to  lisp  in  love's  delicious  creeds ; 
And  Fancy  watches  in  the  wilderness, 
Poor  Fancy  sadder  than  a  single  star. 
That  sets  at  twilight  in  a  land  of  reeds. 


EA  RL  Y  SONNE  TS.  2  43 


VIII. 

The  form,  the  form  alone  is  eloquent ! 
A  nobler  yearning  never  broke  her  rest 
Than  but  to  dance  and  sing,  be  gaily  drest, 
And  win  all  eyes  with  all  accomplishment : 
Yet  in  the  whirling  dances  as  we  went, 
My  fancy  made  me  for  a  moment  blest 
To  find  my  heart  so  near  the  beauteous  breast 
That  once  had  power  to  rob  it  of  content. 
A  moment  came  the  tenderness  of  tears, 
The  phantom  of  a  wish  that  once  could  move, 
A  ghost  of  passion  that  no  smiles  restore  — 
For  ah !  the  slight  coquette,  she  cannot  love. 
And  if  you  kiss'd  her  feet  a  thousand  years, 
She  still  would  take  the  praise,  and  care  no  more. 


244  EARLY  SONNETS. 


IX. 

Wan  Sculptor,  vveepest  thou  to  take  the  cast 
Of  those  dead  lineaments  that  near  thee  lie? 

0  sorrowest  thou,  pale  Painter,  for  the  past, 
In  painting  some  dead  friend  from  memory? 
Weep  on:    beyond  his  object  Love  can  last: 
His  object  lives :    more  cause  to  weep  have  I : 
My  tears,  no  tears  of  love,  are  flowing  fast, 
No  tears  of  love,  but  tears  that  Love  can  die. 

1  pledge  her  not  in  any  cheerful  cup, 

Nor  care  to  sit  beside  her  where  she  sits  — 
Ah  pity !  —  hint  it  not  in  human  tones, 
But  breathe  it  into  earth  and  close  it  up 
With  secret  death  for  ever,  in  the  pits 
Which  some  green  Christmas  crams  with  weary 
bones. 


EARLY  SONNETS.  245 


X. 


If  I  were  loved,  as  I  desire  to  be, 

What  is  there  in  the  great  sphere  of  the  earth, 

And  range  of  evil  between  death  and  birth, 

That  I  should  fear,  —  if  I  were  loved  by  thee  ? 

All  the  inner,  all  the  outer  world  of  pain 

Clear  Love  would  pierce  and  cleave,  if  thou  wert 

mine, 
As  I  have  heard  that,  somewhere  in  the  main. 
Fresh-water   springs    come    up   through   bitter 

brine. 
'Twere  joy,  not  fear,  claspt  hand-in-hand  with 

thee, 
To  wait  for  death  —  mute  —  careless  of  all  ills. 
Apart  upon  a  mountain,  tho'  the  surge 
Of  some  new  deluge  from  a  thousand  hills 
Flung  leagues  of  roaring  foam  into  the  gorge 
Below  us,  as  far  on  as  eye  could  see. 


246  EARLY  SONNETS. 


XI. 

THE   BRIDESMAID. 

0  BRIDESMAID,  ere  the  happy  knot  was  tied, 
Thine  eyes  so  wept  that  they  could  hardly  see ; 
Thy  sister  smiled  and  said,  *  No  tears  for  me ! 
A  happy  bridesmaid  makes  a  happy  bride.' 
And  then,  the  couple  standing  side  by  side, 
Love  lighted  down  between  them  full  of  glee, 
And  over  his  left  shoulder  laugh'd  at  thee, 

*  O  happy  bridesmaid,  make  a  happy  bride  ! ' 
And  all  at  once  a  pleasant  truth  I  learn'd, 
For  while  the  tender  service  made  thee  weep, 

1  loved  thee  for  the  tear  thou  couldst  not  hide. 
And  prest  thy  hand,  and  knew  the  press  return'd. 
And  thought,  *  My  life  is  sick  of  single  sleep  : 

O  happy  bridesmaid,  make  a  happy  bride ! ' 


THE   LADY  OF  SHALOTT, 


AND    OTHER   POEMS. 


THE   LADY   OF   SHALOTT. 

PART  I. 
On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  thro'  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-tower'd  Camelot; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below. 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 


248  THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot 
Four  gray  walls  and  four  gray  towers 
Overlook  a  space  of  flowers, 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil'd. 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd 
By  slow  horses  ;   and  unhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail'd 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot : 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 
Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot : 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary. 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy. 
Listening,  whispers,  '  'T  is  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott.' 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT.  249 

PART  II. 
There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colours  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be. 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 
And  little  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year. 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot: 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls, 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls. 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad, 


250  THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 

Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad, 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  sometimes  thro'  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two : 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror's  magic  sights, 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot: 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed; 
*  I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,'  said 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  III. 

A  BOW-SHOT  from  her  bower-eaves. 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves, 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 
Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT.  251 

A  red-cross  knight  for  ever  kneel'd 
To  a  lady  in  his  shield, 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 
Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot ; 
And  from  his  blazon'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung, 
And  as  he  rode  his  armour  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell'd  shone  the  saddle-leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burn'd  like  one  burning  flame  together. 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot; 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 

Moves  over  still  Shalott. 


252  T/fJS  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd ; 
On  burnish'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
*  Tirra  lirra,'  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 


She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  three  paces  thro'  the  room, 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 
She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot. 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide ; 
The  mirror  crack'd  from  side  to  side ; 
'  The  curse  is  come  upon  me,'  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT.  253 

PART   IV. 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning, 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower'd  Camelot ; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat. 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse, 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance, 
With  a  glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay; 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 

That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right  — 


254  THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 

The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot; 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott,  — 


Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly, 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot. 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side. 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 
By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 
A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 
Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high, 
Silent  into  Camelot. 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT.  255 

Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this?  and  what  is  here? 
And  in  the  Hghted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer ; 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space ; 
He  said,  '  She  has  a  lovely  face  ; 
God  in  His  mercy  lend  her  grace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.' 


256  MARIANA   IN  THE  SOUTH. 


MARIANA   IN  THE   SOUTH. 

With  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet, 

The  house  thro'  all  the  level  shines, 
Close-latticed  to  the  brooding  heat, 

And  silent  in  its  dusty  vines ; 
A  faint-blue  ridge  upon  the  right, 
An  empty  river-bed  before, 
And  shallows  on  a  distant  shore, 
In  glaring  sand  and  inlets  bright. 

But  '  Ave  Mary,'  made  she  moan, 

And  '  Ave  Mary,'  night  and  morn. 
And  '  Ah,'  she  sang,  '  to  be  all  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn ! ' 


She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew. 

From  brow  and  bosom  slowly  down 

Thro'  rosy  taper  fingers  drew 

Her  streaming  curls  of  deepest  brown 


MARIANA   IN  THE  SOUTH.  257 

To  left  and  right,  and  made  appear, 

Still-lighted  in  a  secret  shrine, 

Her  melancholy  eyes  divine, 
The  home  of  woe  without  a  tear. 

And  '  Ave  Mary,'  was  her  moan, 

*  Madonna,  sad  is  night  and  morn,' 
And  *  Ah,'  she  sang,  '  to  be  all  alone. 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn ! ' 

Till  all  the  crimson  changed,  and  past 

Into  deep  orange  o'er  the  sea. 
Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast, 

Before  Our  Lady  murmur'd  she. 
Complaining,  '  Mother,  give  me  grace 

To  help  me  of  my  weary  load ; ' 

And  on  the  liquid  mirror  glow'd 
The  clear  perfection  of  her  face. 

*  Is  this  the  form,'  she  made  her  moan, 

*  That  won  his  praises  night  and  morn?  * 
And  '  Ah,'  she  said,  *  but  I  wake  alone, 

I  sleep  forgotten,  I  wake  forlorn ! ' 

Nor  bird  would  sing,  nor  lamb  would  bleat, 

Nor  any  cloud  would  cross  the  vault, 
VOL.  I.  — 17 


2S8  MARIANA   IN  THE  SOUTH. 

But  day  increased  from  heat  to  heat, 

On  stony  drought  and  steaming  salt; 
Till  now  at  noon  she  slept  again, 

And  seem'd  knee-deep  in  mountain  grass, 
And  heard  her  native  breezes  pass. 
And  runlets  babbling  down  the  glen. 

She  breathed  in  sleep  a  lower  moan, 

And  murmuring,  as  at  night  and  morn, 
She  thought,  '  My  spirit  is  here  alone. 
Walks  forgotten,  and  is  forlorn.' 


Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a  dream ; 
She  felt  he  was  and  was  not  there. 
She  woke :   the  babble  of  the  stream 
Fell,  and,  without,  the  steady  glare 
Shrank  one  sick  willow  sere  and  small. 
The  river-bed  was  dusty-white  ; 
And  all  the  furnace  of  the  light 
Struck  up  against  the  blinding  wall. 
She  whisper'd,  with  a  stifled  moan 

More  inward  than  at  night  or  morn, 
'  Sweet  Mother,  let  me  not  here  alone 
Live  forgotten  and  die  forlorn.' 


MARIANA   IN  THE  SOUTH.  259 

And,  rising,  from  her  bosom  drew 

Old  letters,  breathing  of  her  worth, 
For  *  Love,'  they  said,  '  must  needs  be  true, 

To  what  is  loveliest  upon  earth.' 
An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door. 
To  look  at  her  with  slight,  and  say, 
*  But  now  thy  beauty  flows  away. 
So  be  alone  for  evermore.' 

'  O  cruel  heart,'  she  changed  her  tone, 
'  And  cruel  love,  whose  end  is  scorn, 
Is  this  the  end  to  be  left  alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  die  forlorn?  ' 

But  sometimes  in  the  falling  day 

An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door, 
To  look  into  her  eyes  and  say, 

'  But  thou  shalt  be  alone  no  more.' 
And  flaming  downward  over  all 

From  heat  to  heat  the  day  decreased. 
And  slowly  rounded  to  the  east 
The  one  black  shadow  from  the  wall. 

'The  day  to  night,'  she  made  her  moan, 
'The  day  to  night,  the  night  to  morn, 
And  day  and  night  I  am  left  alone 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.' 


26o  MARIANA  IN  THE   SOUTH. 

At  eve  a  dry  cicala  sung, 

There  came  a  sound  as  of  the  sea; 
Backward  the  lattice-blind  she  flung, 

And  lean'd  upon  the  balcony. 
There  all  in  spaces  rosy-bright 

Large  Hesper  glitter'd  on  her  tears, 
And  deepening  thro'  the  silent  spheres 
Heaven  over  Heaven  rose  the  night. 

And  weeping  then  she  made  her  moan, 

*  The  night  comes  on  that  knows  not  morn, 
When  I  shall  cease  to  be  all  alone. 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.' 


THE    TWO    VOICES.  26 1 


THE   TWO  VOICES. 

A  STILL  small  voice  spake  unto  me, 
*  Thou  art  so  full  of  misery, 
Were  it  not  better  not  to  be?  ' 

Then  to  the  still  small  voice  I  said, 
'  Let  me  not  cast  in  endless  shade 
What  is  so  wonderfully  made.' 

To  which  the  voice  did  urge  reply, 

'  To-day  I  saw  the  dragon-fly 

Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie. 

'  An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk ;  from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plates  of  sapphire  mail. 

*  He  dried  his  wings :   like  gauze  they  grew ; 
Thro'  crofts  and  pastures  wet  with  dew 
A  living  flash  of  light  he  flew.' 


262  THE    TWO    VOICES. 

I  said,  '  When  first  the  world  began, 
Young  Nature  thro'  five  cycles  ran, 
And  in  the  sixth  she  moulded  man, 

*  She  gave  him  mind,  the  lordliest 
Proportion,  and,  above  the  rest. 
Dominion  in  the  head  and  breast.' 

Thereto  the  silent  voice  replied, 

*  Self-blinded  are  you  by  your  pride : 
Look  up  thro'  night:  the  world  is  wide. 

'  This  truth  within  thy  mind  rehearse. 

That  in  a  boundless  universe 

Is  boundless  better,  boundless  worse. 

'  Think  you  this  mould  of  hopes  and  fears 
Could  find  no  statelier  than  his  peers 
In  yonder  hundred  million  spheres?' 

It  spake,  moreover,  in  my  mind, 

*  Tho'  thou  wert  scatter'd  to  the  wind, 
Yet  is  there  plenty  of  the  kind.' 


THE    TWO    VOICES.  263 

Then  did  my  response  clearer  fall, 
'  No  compound  of  this  earthly  ball 
Is  like  another,  all  in  all.' 

To  which  he  answer'd  scoffingly, 

'  Good  soul !  suppose  I  grant  it  thee, 

Who  '11  weep  for  thy  deficiency? 

'  Or  will  one  beam  be  less  intense, 

When  thy  peculiar  difference 

Is  cancell'd  in  the  world  of  sense?' 

I  would  have  said,  '  Thou  canst  not  know,' 
But  my  full  heart,  that  work'd  below, 
Rain'd  thro'  my  sight  its  overflow. 

Again  the  voice  spake  unto  me, 
'  Thou  art  so  steep'd  in  misery, 
Surely  't  were  better  not  to  be. 

'  Thine  anguish  will  not  let  thee  sleep, 

Nor  any  train  of  reason  keep  : 

Thou  canst  not  think,  but  thou  wilt  weep. 


264  THE    TWO    VOICES. 

I  said,  '  The  years  with  change  advance : 
If  I  make  dark  my  countenance, 
I  shut  my  life  from  happier  chance. 

*  Some  turn  this  sickness  yet  might  take, 
Even  yet.'     But  he :  *  What  drug  can  make 
A  wither'd  palsy  cease  to  shake?' 

I  wept,  *  Tho'  I  should  die,  I  know 
That  all  about  the  thorn  will  blow 
In  tufts  of  rosy-tinted  snow; 

'  And  men,  thro'  novel  spheres  of  thought 
Still  moving  after  truth  long  sought. 
Will  learn  new  things  when  I  am  not' 

*  Yet,'  said  the  secret  voice,  '  some  time, 
Sooner  or  later,  will  gray  prime 

Make  thy  grass  hoar  with  early  rime. 

*  Not  less  swift  souls  that  yearn  for  light, 
Rapt  after  heaven's  starry  flight, 
Would  sweep  the  tracts  of  day  and  night. 


THE    TWO    VOICES.  265 

*  Not  less  the  bee  would  range  her  cells, 
The  furzy  prickle  fire  the  dells, 

The  foxglove  cluster  dappled  bells.' 

I  said  that  '  all  the  years  invent ; 
Each  month  is  various  to  present 
The  world  with  some  development. 

'  Were  this  not  well,  to  bide  mine  hour, 
Tho'  watching  from  a  ruin'd  tower 
How  grows  the  day  of  human  power  ? ' 

*  The  highest-mounted  mind,'  he  said, 
'  Still  sees  the  sacred  morning  spread 
The  silent  summit  overhead. 

*  Will  thirty  seasons  render  plain 
Those  lonely  lights  that  still  remain, 
Just  breaking  over  land  and  main? 

*  Or  make  that  morn,  from  his  cold  crov/n 
And  crystal  silence  creeping  down, 
Flood  with  full  daylight  glebe  and  town  ? 


266  THE    TWO    VOICES. 

'  Forerun  thy  peers,  thy  time,  and  let 

Thy  feet,  millenniums  hence,  be  set 

In  midst  of  knowledge,  dream'd  not  yet. 

*  Thou  hast  not  gain'd  a  real  height. 
Nor  art  thou  nearer  to  the  light, 
Because  the  scale  is  infinite. 

'  'Twere  better  not  to  breathe  or  speak 
Than  cry  for  strength,  remaining  weak, 
And  seem  to  find,  but  still  to  seek. 

'  Moreover,  but  to  seem  to  find 

Asks  what  thou  lackest,  thought  resigned, 

A  healthy  frame,  a  quiet  mind.' 

I  said,  '  When  I  am  gone  away, 

"  He  dared  not  tarry,"  men  will  say. 

Doing  dishonour  to  my  clay.' 

'  This  is  more  vile,'  he  made  reply, 

'  To  breathe  and  loathe,  to  live  and  sigh, 

Than  once  from  dread  of  pain  to  die. 


THE    TWO    VOICES.  267 

'  Sick  art  thou  —  a  divided  will 
Still  heaping  on  the  fear  of  ill 
The  fear  of  men,  a  coward  still. 

'Do  men  love  thee?     Art  thou  so  bound 
To  men,  that  how  thy  name  may  sound 
Will  vex  thee  lying  underground? 

'  The  memory  of  the  wither'd  leaf 
In  endless  time  is  scarce  more  brief 
Than  of  the  garner'd  Autumn-sheaf. 

*  Go,  vexed  Spirit,  sleep  in  trust; 
The  right  ear,  that  is  fill'd  with  dust, 
Hears  little  of  the  false  or  just.' 

'  Hard  task,  to  pluck  resolve,'  I  cried, 
'  From  emptiness  and  the  waste  wide 
Of  that  abyss,  or  scornful  pride  ! 

'Nay  —  rather  yet  that  I  could  raise 
One  hope  that  warm'd  me  in  the  days 
While  still  I  yearn' d  for  human  praise. 


268  THE    TWO   VOICES. 

'  When,  wide  in  soul  and  bold  of  tongue, 
Among  the  tents  I  paused  and  sung, 
The  distant  battle  flash'd  and  rung. 

*  I  sung  the  joyful  Paean  clear, 
And,  sitting,  burnish'd  without  fear 
The  brand,  the  buckler,  and  the  spear  — 

'  Waiting  to  strive  a  happy  strife. 
To  war  with  falsehood  to  the  knife, 
And  not  to  lose  the  good  of  life  — 

*  Some  hidden  principle  to  move. 
To  put  together,  part  and  prove. 

And  mete  the  bounds  of  hate  and  love  — 

'  As  far  as  might  be,  to  carve  out 
Free  space  for  every  human  doubt. 
That  the  whole  mind  might  orb  about  — 

*  To  search  thro'  all  I  felt  or  saw, 
The  springs  of  life,  the  depths  of  awe, 
And  reach  the  law  within  the  law ; 


THE    TWO    VOICES.  269 

'  At  least,  not  rotting  like  a  weed, 
But,  having  sown  some  generous  seed, 
Fruitful  of  further  thought  and  deed, 

'  To  pass,  when  Life  her  light  withdraws. 
Not  void  of  righteous  self-applause, 
Nor  in  a  merely  selfish  cause  — 

*  In  some  good  cause,  not  in  mine  own. 
To  perish,  wept  for,  honour'd,  known. 
And  like  a  warrior  overthrown ; 

'  Whose  eyes  are  dim  with  glorious  tears. 
When,  soil'd  with  noble  dust,  he  hears 
His  country's  war-song  thrill  his  ears : 

*  Then  dying  of  a  mortal  stroke. 
What  time  the  foeman's  line  is  broke, 
And  all  the  war  is  roll'd  in  smoke.* 

*  Yea !  '  said  the  voice,  '  thy  dream  was  good. 
While  thou  abodest  in  the  bud. 

It  was  the  stirring  of  the  blood. 


27©  THE    TWO    VOICES. 

'  If  Nature  put  not  forth  her  power 
About  the  opening  of  the  flower, 
Who  is  it  that  could  Hve  an  hour? 

'  Then  comes  the  check,  the  change,  the  fall, 
Pain  rises  up,  old  pleasures  pall. 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all. 

'  Yet  hadst  thou,  thro'  enduring  pain, 
Link'd  month  to  month  with  such  a  chain 
Of  knitted  purport,  all  were  vain. 

*  Thou  hadst  not  between  death  and  birth 
Dissolved  the  riddle  of  the  earth. 

So  were  thy  labour  little  worth. 

'  That  men  with  knowledge  merely  play'd, 
I  told  thee  —  hardly  nigher  made, 
Tho*  scaling  slow  from  grade  to  grade ; 

*  Much  less  this  dreamer,  deaf  and  blind, 
Named  man,  may  hope  some  truth  to  find 
That  bears  relation  to  the  mind. 


THE    TWO    VOICES.  271 

*  For  every  worm  beneath  the  moon 
Draws  different  threads,  and  late  and  soon 
Spins,  toiling  out  his  own  cocoon. 

*  Cry,  faint  not :   either  Truth  is  born 
Beyond  the  polar  gleam  forlorn, 

Or  in  the  gateways  of  the  morn. 

'  Cry,  faint  not,  climb :   the  summits  slope 
Beyond  the  furthest  flights  of  hope. 
Wrapt  in  dense  cloud  from  base  to  cope. 

*  Sometimes  a  little  corner  shines, 
As  over  rainy  mist  inclines 

A  gleaming  crag  with  belts  of  pines. 

*  I  will  go  forward,  sayest  thou, 
I  shall  not  fail  to  find  her  now. 
Look  up,  the  fold  is  on  her  brow. 

*  If  straight  thy  track,  or  if  oblique, 

Thou  know'st  not.     Shadows  thou  dost  strike, 
Embracing  cloud,  Ixion-like; 


2  72  THE    TWO    VOICES. 

'  And  owning  but  a  little  more 
Than  beasts,  abidest  lame  and  poor, 
Calling  thyself  a  little  lower 

'  Than  angels.     Cease  to  wail  and  brawl ! 
Why  inch  by  inch  to  darkness  crawl? 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all.' 

*  O  dull,  one-sided  voice,'  said  I, 

'  Wilt  thou  make  everything  a  lie, 
To  flatter  me  that  I  may  die? 

*  I  know  that  age  to  age  succeeds, 
Blowing  a  noise  of  tongues  and  deeds, 
A  dust  of  systems  and  of  creeds. 

'  I  cannot  hide  that  some  have  striven, 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  was  given 
The  joy  that  mixes  man  with  Heaven; 

'  Who,  rowing  hard  against  the  stream, 
Saw  distant  gates  of  Eden  gleam. 
And  did  not  dream  it  was  a  dream. 


THE    TWO    VOICES.  273 

*  But  heard,  by  secret  transport  led, 
Even  in  the  charnels  of  the  dead, 
The  murmur  of  the  fountain-head  — 

'  Which  did  accomplish  their  desire, 
Bore  and  forbore,  and  did  not  tire, 
Like  Stephen,  an  unquenched  fire. 

'  He  heeded  not  reviling  tones, 
Nor  sold  his  heart  to  idle  moans, 
Tho'  cursed  and  scorn'd,  and  bruised  with 
stones ; 

'  But  looking  upward,  full  of  grace, 
He  pray  'd,  and  from  a  happy  place 
God's  glory  smote  him  on  the  face.' 

The  sullen  answer  slid  betwixt : 

'  Not  that  the  grounds  of  hope  were  fix'd, 

The  elements  were  kindlier  mix'd.' 

I  said,  '  I  toil  beneath  the  curse. 

But,  knowing  not  the  universe, 

I  fear  to  slide  from  bad  to  worse. 
VOL.  I. — 18 


2  74  THE    TWO    VOICES. 

'  And  that,  in  seeking  to  undo 
One  riddle,  and  to  find  the  true, 
I  knit  a  hundred  others  new; 

'  Or  that  this  anguish  fleeting  hence, 
Unmanacled  from  bonds  of  sense, 
Be  fix'd  and  frozen  to  permanence: 

'  For  I  go,  weak  from  suffering  here ; 
Naked  I  go,  and  void  of  cheer : 
What  is  it  that  I  may  not  fear? ' 

'  Consider  well,'  the  voice  replied, 

'  His  face,  that  two  hours  since  hath  died ; 

Wilt  thou  find  passion,  pain,  or  pride? 

'Will  he  obey  when  one  commands? 
Or  answer  should  one  press  his  hands? 
He  answers  not,  nor  understands. 

'His  palms  are  folded  on  his  breast: 
There  is  no  other  thing  express'd 
But  long  disquiet  merged  in  rest. 


THE    TIFO    VOICES.  275 

*  His  lips  are  very  mild  and  meek: 
Tho'  one  should  smite  him  on  the  cheek, 
And  on  the  mouth,  he  will  not  speak. 

'  His  little  daughter,  whose  sweet  face 
He  kiss'd,  taking  his  last  embrace. 
Becomes  dishonour  to  her  race; 

'  His  sons  grow  up  that  bear  his  name. 
Some  grow  to  honour,  some  to  shame : 
But  he  is  chill  to  praise  or  blame. 

'  He  will  not  hear  the  north-wind  rave. 
Nor,  moaning,  household  shelter  crave 
From  winter  rains  that  beat  his  grave. 

*  High  up  the  vapours  fold  and  swim ; 
About  him  broods  the  twilight  dim; 
The  place  he  knew  forgetteth  him.' 

*  If  all  be  dark,  vague  voice,'  I  said, 

*  These  things  are  wrapt  in  doubt  and  dread, 
Nor  canst  thou  show  the  dead  are  dead. 


276  THE    TWO    VOICES. 

'  The  sap  dries  up  :  the  plant  declines. 
A  deeper  tale  my  heart  divines. 
Know  I  not  Death?  the  outward  signs? 

'  I  found  him  when  my  years  were  few  ; 
A  shadow  on  the  graves  I  knew, 
And  darkness  in  the  village  yew. 

*  From  grave  to  grave  the  shadow  crept ; 
In  her  still  place  the  morning  wept; 
Touch'd  by  his  feet  the  daisy  slept. 

'  The  simple  senses  crown'd  his  head  : 
*'  Omega !  thou  art  Lord,"  they  said, 
"We  find  no  motion  in  the  dead." 

*  Why,  if  man  rot  in  dreamless  ease. 
Should  that  plain  fact,  as  taught  by  these, 
Not  make  him  sure  that  he  shall  cease? 

*  Who  forged  that  other  influence, 
That  heat  of  inward  evidence, 

By  which  he  doubts  against  the  sense  ? 


THE    TWO    VOICES.  277 

'  He  owns  the  fatal  gift  of  eyes, 
That  read  his  spirit  blindly  wise, 
Not  simple  as  a  thing  that  dies. 

'  Here  sits  he  shaping  wings  to  fly; 
His  heart  forebodes  a  mystery; 
He  names  the  name  Eternity. 

'  That  type  of  Perfect  in  his  mind 
In  Nature  can  he  nowhere  find. 
He  sows  himself  on  every  wind. 

*  He  seems  to  hear  a  Heavenly  Friend, 
And  thro'  thick  veils  to  apprehend 

A  labour  working  to  an  end. 

'The  end  and  the  beginning  vex 

His  reason;   many  things  perplex, 

With  motions,  checks,  and  counterchecks. 

*  He  knows  a  baseness  in  his  blood 

At  such  strange  war  with  something  good, 
He  may  not  do  the  thing  he  would. 


278  THE    TWO    VOICES. 

'  Heaven  opens  inward,  chasms  yawn, 
Vast  images  in  glimmering  dawn, 
Half  shown,  are  broken  and  withdrawn. 

'  Ah !  sure  within  him  and  without, 
Could  his  dark  wisdom  find  it  out, 
There  must  be  answer  to  his  doubt, 

'  But  thou  canst  answer  not  again. 
With  thine  own  weapon  art  thou  slain, 
Or  thou  wilt  answer  but  in  vain. 

*  The  doubt  would  rest,  I  dare  not  solve. 
In  the  same  circle  we  revolve. 
Assurance  only  breeds  resolve.* 

As  when  a  billow,  blown  against. 

Falls  back,  the  voice  with  which  I  fenced 

A  little  ceased,  but  recommenced : 

'  Where  wert  thou  when  thy  father  play'd 
In  his  free  field,  and  pastime  made, 
A  merry  boy  in  sun  and  shade? 


THE    TWO    VOICES.  279 

A  merry  boy  they  call'd  him  then, 
He  sat  upon  the  knees  of  men 
In  days  that  never  come  again ; 

'  Before  the  little  ducts  began 

To  feed  thy  bones  with  lime,  and  ran 

Their  course,  till  thou  wert  also  man: 

'  Who  took  a  wife,  who  rear'd  his  race, 
Whose  wrinkles  gather'd  on  his  face, 
Whose  troubles  number  with  his  days : 

'  A  life  of  nothings,  nothing  worth, 
From  that  first  nothing  ere  his  birth 
To  that  last  nothing  under  earth !  ' 

'  These  words,'  I  said,  '  are  like  the  rest ; 
No  certain  clearness,  but  at  best 
A  vague  suspicion  of  the  breast: 

*  But  if  I  grant,  thou  mightst  defend 
The  thesis  which  thy  words  intend,  — 
That  to  begin  implies  to  end; 


28o  THE   TWO    VOICES. 

'  Yet  how  should  I  for  certain  hold, 
Because  my  memory  is  so  cold, 
That  I  first  was  in  human  mould? 

'  I  cannot  make  this  matter  plain, 
But  I  would  shoot,  howe'er  in  vain, 
A  random  arrow  from  the  brain. 

'  It  may  be  that  no  life  is  found, 
Which  only  to  one  engine  bound 
Falls  off,  but  cycles  always  round. 

'  As  old  mythologies  relate, 

Some  draught  of  Lethe  might  await 

The  slipping  thro'  from  state  to  state ; 

'  As  here  we  find  in  trances,  men 
Forget  the  dream  that  happens  then, 
Until  they  fall  in  trance  again : 

'  So  might  we,  if  our  state  were  such 

As  one  before,  remember  much. 

For  those  two  likes  might  meet  and  touch. 


THE    TWO    VOICES.  281 

*  But,  if  I  lapsed  from  nobler  place, 
Some  legend  of  a  fallen  race 
Alone  might  hint  of  my  disgrace ; 

*  Some  vague  emotion  of  delight 
In  gazing  up  an  Alpine  height, 

Some  yearning  toward  the  lamps  of  night ; 

'  Or  if  thro'  lower  lives  I  came  — 
Tho'  all  experience  past  became 
Consolidate  in  mind  and  frame  — 

*  I  might  forget  my  weaker  lot ; 
For  is  not  our  first  year  forgot? 
The  haunts  of  memory  echo  not. 

'  And  men,  whose  reason  long  was  blind, 
From  cells  of  madness  unconfined, 
Oft  'tose  whole  years  of  darker  mind. 

'  Much  more,  if  first  I  floated  free, 
As  naked  essence,  must  I  be 
Incompetent  of  memory; 


282  THE    TWO    VOICES. 

'  For  memory  dealing  but  with  time, 
And  he  with  matter,  could  she  climb 
Beyond  her  own  material  prime? 

*  Moreover,  something  is  or  seems, 
That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams, 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams  — 

*  Of  something  felt,  like  something  here ; 
Of  something  done,  I  know  not  where ; 
Such  as  no  language  may  declare.' 

The  still  voice  laugh'd.     '  I  talk,'  said  he, 
'  Not  with  thy  dreams.     Suffice  it  thee 
Thy  pain  is  a  reality.' 

*  But  thou,'  said  I,  *  hast  miss'd  thy  mark, 
Who  sought'st  to  wreck  my  mortal  ark, 
By  making  all  the  horizon  dark. 

'  Why  not  set  forth,  if  I  should  do 
This  rashness,  that  which  might  ensue 
With  this  old  soul  in  organs  new? 


THE    TWO    VOICES.  283 

*  Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith, 

No  life  that  breathes  with  human  breath 

Has  ever  truly  long'd  for  death. 

''Tis  life  whereof  our  nerves  are  scant, 
Oh,  life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant; 
More  life,  and  fuller,  that  I  want' 

I  ceased,  and  sat  as  one  forlorn. 
Then  said  the  voice,  in  quiet  scorn, 
'  Behold,  it  is  the  Sabbath  morn.' 

And  I  arose,  and  I  released 

The  casement,  and  the  light  increased 

With  freshness  in  the  dawning  east. 

Like  soften'd  airs  that  blowing  steal, 
When  meres  begin  to  uncongeal, 
The  sweet  church  bells  began  to  peal. 

On  to  God's  house  the  people  prest: 
Passing  the  place  where  each  must  rest, 
Each  enter'd  like  a  welcome  guest. 


284  THE    TWO    VOICES. 

One  walk'd  between  his  wife  and  child, 
With  measured  footfall  firm  and  mild, 
And  now  and  then  he  gravely  smiled. 

The  prudent  partner  of  his  blood 
Lean'd  on  him,  faithful,  gentle,  good. 
Wearing  the  rose  of  womanhood. 

And  in  their  double  love  secure. 
The  little  maiden  walk'd  demure, 
Pacing  with  downward  eyelids  pure. 

These  three  made  unity  so  sweet, 
My  frozen  heart  began  to  beat, 
Remembering  its  ancient  heat. 

I  blest  them,  and  they  wander'd  on : 
I  spoke,  but  answer  came  there  none; 
The  dull  and  bitter  voice  was  gone. 

A  second  voice  was  at  mine  ear, 

A  little  whisper  silver-clear, 

A  murmur,  *  Be  of  better  cheer.' 


THE    TWO    VOICES.  285 

As  from  some  blissful  neighbourhood, 

A  notice  faintly  understood, 

*  I  see  the  end,  and  know  the  good.' 

A  little  hint  to  solace  woe, 

A  hint,  a  whisper  breathing  low, 

'  I  may  not  speak  of  what  I  know.' 

Like  an  /Eolian  harp  that  wakes 

No  certain  air,  but  overtakes 

Far  thought  with  music  that  it  makes ; 

Such  seem'd  the  whisper  at  my  side. 

'  What  is  it  thou  knowest,  sweet  voice  ? '  I  cried. 

'A  hidden  hope,'  the  voice  replied; 

So  heavenly-toned  that  in  that  hour 
From  out  my  sullen  heart  a  power 
Broke,  like  the  rainbow  from  the  shower, 

To  feel,  altho'  no  tongue  can  prove, 
That  every  cloud,  that  spreads  above 
And  veileth  love,  itself  is  love. 


2  86  THE    TWO    VOICES. 

And  forth  into  the  fields  I  went, 
And  Nature's  Hving  motion  lent 
The  pulse  of  hope  to  discontent. 

I  wonder'd  at  the  bounteous  hours, 
The  slow  result  of  winter  showers : 
You  scarce  could  see  the  grass  for  flowers. 

I  wonder'd,  while  I  paced  along: 

The  woods  were  fill'd  so  full  with  song, 

There  seem'd  no  room  for  sense  of  wrong; 

And  all  so  variously  wrought, 

I  marvell'd  how  the  mind  was  brought 

To  anchor  by  one  gloomy  thought; 

And  wherefore  rather  I  made  choice 
To  commune  with  that  barren  voice 
Than  him  that  said,  '  Rejoice  !    Rejoice  !  ' 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER.  287 


THE   MILLER'S   DAUGHTER. 

I  SEE  the  wealthy  miller  yet, 

His  double  chin,  his  portly  size; 
And  who  that  knew  him  could  forget 

The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes? 
The  slow  wise  smile  that,  round  about 

His  dusty  forehead  drily  curl'd, 
Seem'd  half-within  and  half-without, 

And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world  ? 

In  yonder  chair  I  see  him  sit, 

Three  fingers  round  the  old  silver  cup ; 
I  see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 

At  his  own  jest,  —  gray  eyes  lit  up 
With  summer  lightnings  of  a  soul 

So  full  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad, 
So  healthy,  sound,  and  clear  and  whole. 

His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 

Yet  fill  my  glass :   give  me  one  kiss : 
My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die. 


288  THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

There  's  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 
Shall  be  unriddled  by  and  by. 

There  's  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life, 
But  more  is  taken  quite  away. 

Pray,  Alice,  pray,  my  darling  wife. 
That  we  may  die  the  selfsame  day. 

Have  I  not  found  a  happy  earth? 

I  least  should  breathe  a  thought  of  pain. 
Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 

I  'd  almost  live  my  life  again. 
So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk, 

And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine  — 
It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 

Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine  — 

To  be  the  long  and  listless  boy 

Late-left  an  orphan  of  the  squire, 
Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high 

Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire; 
For  even  here,  where  I  and  you 

Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long, 
Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  thro' 

By  some  wild  skylark's  matin  song. 


■■  So  sweet  it  seems  -with  thee  to  walk, 
And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine." 

The  Miller's  Daughter. 

Photogravure  from  drawing  by  H.  Winthrop  Peirce. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER,  289 

And  oft  I  heard  the  tender  dove 

In  firry  woodlands  making  moan; 
But  ere  I  saw  your  eyes,  my  love, 

I  had  no  motion  of  my  own. 
For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  play'd 

Before  I  dream'd  that  pleasant  dream  — 
Still  hither,  thither,  idly  sway'd 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the  stream. 

Or  from  the  bridge  I  lean'd  to  hear 

The  milldam  rushing  down  with  noise, 
And  see  the  minnows  everywhere 

In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise. 
The  tall  flag-flowers  when  they  sprung 

Below  the  range  of  stepping-stones, 
Or  those  three  chestnuts  near,  that  hung 

In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 

But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that. 

When  after  roving  in  the  woods 
('T  was  April  then),  I  came  and  sat 

Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their  buds 

Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue ; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 
VOL.  I. — 19 


290  THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

I  cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  you, 
But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

A  love-song  I  had  somewhere  read, 

An  echo  from  a  measured  strain, 
Beat  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 

From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain. 
It  haunted  me,  the  morning  long, 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes. 
The  phantom  of  a  silent  song, 

That  went  and  came  a  thousand  times. 

Then  leapt  a  trout.     In  lazy  mood 

I  watch'd  the  little  circles  die ; 
They  past  into  the  level  flood, 

And  there  a  vision  caught  my  eye ; 
The  reflex  of  a  beauteous  form, 

A  glowing  arm,  a  gleaming  neck, 
As  when  a  sunbeam  wavers  warm 

Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set, 

That  morning,  on  the  casement-edge 

A  long  green  box  of  mignonette, 

And  you  were  leaning  from  the  ledge ; 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER.  291 

And  when  I  raised  my  eyes,  above 

They  met  with  two  so  full  and  bright  — 

Such  eyes !  I  swear  to  you,  my  love, 
That  these  have  never  lost  their  light. 

I  loved,  and  love  dispell'd  the  fear 

That  I  should  die  an  early  death ; 
For  love  possess'd  the  atmosphere, 

And  fill'd  the  breast  with  purer  breath. 
My  mother  thought.  What  ails  the  boy? 

For  I  was  alter'd,  and  began 
To  move  about  the  house  with  joy, 

And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 

I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 

Thro'  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill, 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still. 
The  meal-sacks  on  the  whiten'd  floor, 

The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  wheel, 
The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold. 
When  April  nights  began  to  blow, 


292  THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

And  April's  crescent  glimmer'd  cold, 

I  saw  the  village  lights  below ; 
I  knew  your  taper  far  away, 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope, 
From  off  the  wold  I  came,  and  lay 

Upon  the  freshly-flower'd  slope. 

The  deep  brook  groan'd  beneath  the  mill ; 

And  '  by  that  lamp,'  I  thought,  '  she  sits !  ' 
The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 

Gleam'd  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits. 
'  O  that  I  were  beside  her  now  ! 

O  will  she  answer  if  I  call? 
O  would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow. 

Sweet  Alice,  if  I  told  her  all?' 

Sometimes  I  saw  you  sit  and  spin ; 

And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind. 
Sometimes  I  heard  you  sing  within ; 

Sometimes  your  shadow  cross'd  the  blind. 
At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light, 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair 
Flitted  across  into  the  night, 

And  all  the  casement  darken'd  there. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER.  293 

But  when  at  last  I  dared  to  speak, 

The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white  with  may, 
Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,  but  your  cheek 

Flush'd  like  the  coming  of  the  day; 
And  so  it  was  —  half-sly,  half-shy, 

You  would,  and  would  not,  little  one ! 
Although  I  pleaded  tenderly. 

And  you  and  I  were  all  alone. 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 

To  yield  consent  to  my  desire : 
She  wish'd  me  happy,  but  she  thought 

I  might  have  look'd  a  little  higher; 
And  I  was  young  —  too  young  to  wed : 

*  Yet  must  I  love  her  for  your  sake ; 
Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,'  she  said : 

Her  eyelid  quiver'd  as  she  spake. 

And  down  I  went  to  fetch  my  bride : 

But,  Alice,  you  were  ill  at  ease ; 
This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried, 

Too  fearful  that  you  should  not  please. 
I  loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I  knew  you  could  not  look  but  well; 


294  THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

And  dews,  that  would  have  fallen  in  tears, 
I  kiss'd  away  before  they  fell. 

I  watch'd  the  little  flutterings, 

The  doubt  my  mother  would  not  see; 
She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things, 

And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me ; 
And  turning  look'd  upon  your  face, 

As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart, 
And  rose,  and,  with  a  silent  grace 

Approaching,  press'd  you  heart  to  heart. 

Ah,  well  —  but  sing  the  foolish  song 

I  gave  you,  Alice,  on  the  day 
When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along, 

A  pensive  pair,  and  you  were  gay 
With  bridal  flowers  —  that  I  may  seem, 

As  in  the  nights  of  old,  to  lie 
Beside  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream. 

While  those  full  chestnuts  whisper  by. 

It  is  the  miller's  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 

That  I  would  be  the  jewel 
That  trembles  in  her  ear ; 

For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 

I  'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER.  295 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 

About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist, 
And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me, 

In  sorrow  and  in  rest ; 
And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 
I  'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs ; 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  night. 

A  trifle,  sweet!  which  true  love  spells  — 

True  love  interprets  —  right  alone. 
His  light  upon  the  letter  dwells. 

For  all  the  spirit  is  his  own. 
So,  if  I  waste  words  now,  in  truth 

You  must  blame  Love.     His  early  rage 
Had  force  to  make  me  rhyme  in  youth. 

And  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age. 

And  now  those  vivid  hours  are  gone, 
Like  mine  own  life  to  me  thou  art, 


296  THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

Where  Past  and  Present,  wound  in  one, 
Do  make  a  garland  for  the  heart: 

So  sing  that  other  song  I  made, 
Half-anger'd  with  my  happy  lot. 

The  day,  when  in  the  chestnut  shade 
I  found  the  blue  forget-me-not. 

Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net, 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget? 
Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
Many  a  chance  the  years  beget. 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 

Even  so. 
Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret. 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love  ?   for  we  forget : 

Ah,  no  !    no  ! 

Look  thro'  mine  eyes  with  thine.     True  wife, 
Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  entwine ! 

My  other  dearer  life  in  life. 

Look  thro'  my  very  soul  with  thine  ! 


THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER.  297 

Untouch'd  with  any  shade  of  years, 
May  those  kind  eyes  for  ever  dwell ! 

They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears, 

Dear  eyes,  since  first  I  knew  them  well. 

Yet  tears  they  shed  ;   they  had  their  part 

Of  sorrow :    for  when  time  was  ripe, 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 
That  into  stillness  past  again. 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before. 
Although  the  loss  had  brought  us  pain, 

That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more. 

With  farther  lockings  on.     The  kiss. 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss. 

The  comfort,  I  have  found  in  thee: 
But  that  God  bless  thee,  dear  —  who  wrought 

Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind  — 
With  blessings  beyond  hope  or  thought, 

With  blessings  which  no  words  can  find ! 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth, 
To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds ; 


298  THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north. 
Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds. 

And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass, 
Touching  the  sullen  pool  below : 

On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 
Is  dry  and  dewless.     Let  us  go. 


FA  TIM  A.  299 


FATIMA. 

O  Love,  Love,  Love  !    O  withering  might ! 

0  sun,  that  from  thy  noonday  height 
Shudderest  when  I  strain  my  sight, 
Throbbing  thro'  all  thy  heat  and  light, 

Lo,  falling  from  my  constant  mind, 

Lo,  parch'd  and  wither'd,  deaf  and  blind, 

I  whirl  like  leaves  in  roaring  wind. 

Last  night  I  wasted  hateful  hours 
Below  the  city's  eastern  towers ; 

1  thirsted  for  the  brooks,  the  showers; 
I  roll'd  among  the  tender  flowers; 

I  crush'd  them  on  my  breast,  my  mouth ; 
I  look'd  athwart  the  burning  drouth 
Of  that  long  desert  to  the  south. 

Last  night,  when  some  one  spoke  his  name, 
From  my  swift  blood  that  went  and  came 


300  FA  TIM  A. 

A  thousand  little  shafts  of  flame 
Were  shiver'd  in  my  narrow  frame. 
O  Love,  O  fire !  once  he  drew 
With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul  thro' 
My  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew. 

Before  he  mounts  the  hill,  I  know 
He  Cometh  quickly;   from  below 
Sweet  gales,  as  from  deep  gardens,  blow 
Before  him,  striking  on  my  brow. 
In  my  dry  brain  my  spirit  soon, 
Down-deepening  from  swoon  to  swoon, 
Faints  like  a  dazzled  morning  moon. 

The  wind  sounds  like  a  silver  wire. 
And  from  beyond  the  noon  a  fire 
Is  pour'd  upon  the  hills,  and  nigher 
The  skies  stoop  down  in  their  desire; 
And,  isled  in  sudden  seas  of  light, 
My  heart,  pierced  thro'  with  fierce  delight, 
Bursts  into  blossom  in  his  sight. 

My  whole  soul  waiting  silently, 
All  naked  in  a  sultry  sky, 


FAT/MA.  301 

Droops  blinded  with  his  shining  eye : 

I  will  possess  him  or  will  die. 

I  will  grow  round  him  in  his  place, 
Grow,  live,  die  looking  on  his  face, 
Die,  dying  clasp'd  in  his  embrace. 


302  (ENON'E. 


GENONE. 

There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 

Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 

The  swimming  vapour  slopes  athwart  the  glen, 

Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from  pine  to  pine. 

And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.     On  either  hand 

The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway  down 

Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below  them  roars 

The  long  brook  falling  thro'  the  cloven  ravine 

In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 

Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus 

Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning ;  but  in  front 

The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 

Troas  and  Ilion's  column'd  citadel. 

The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  at  noon 
Mournful  CEnone,  wandering  forlorn 
Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the  hills. 
Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round  her  neck 
Floated  her  hair  or  seem'd  to  float  in  rest. 
She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with  vine, 


(EiVONE.  ZOl 

Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain-shade 
Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the  upper 
cliff. 

'  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the  hill; 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass ; 
The  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone, 
Rests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  winds  are  dead. 
The  purple  flower  droops ;  the  golden  bee 
Is  lily-cradled  :  I  alone  awake. 
My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  love, 
My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are  dim. 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

*  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Hear  me,  O  Earth,  hear  me,  O  Hills,  O  Caves 
That  house  the  cold  crown'd  snake  !  O  mountain 

brooks, 
I  am  the  daughter  of  a  River-God, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  speak,  and  build  up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder  walls 


304  CENONE. 

Rose  slowly  to  a  music  slowly  breathed, 
A  cloud  that  gather'd  shape :   for  it  may  be 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper  woe. 

'  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die, 
I  waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills ; 
Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  was  dewy-dark, 
And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountain  pine : 
Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 
Leading  a  jet-black  goat  white-horn'd,  white- 

hooved. 
Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

*  O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Far  off  the  torrent  call'd  me  from  the  cleft ; 
Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 
The  streaks  of  virgin   snow.     With  down-dropt 

eyes 
I  sat  alone :  white-breasted  like  a  star 
Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved ;  a  leopard  skin 
Droop'd  from  his  shoulder,  but  his  sunny  hair 
Cluster'd  about  his  temples  like  a  God's ; 


CENONE.  305 

And    his    cheek   brighten'd    as    the    foam-bow 

brightens 
When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and  all  my  heart 
Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming  ere  he  came. 

'  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk-white  palm 
Disclosed  a  fruit  of  pure  Hesperian  gold, 
That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  I  look'd 
And  listen'd,  the  full-flowing  river  of  speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart: 

"  My  own  Q^none, 
Beautiful-brow'd  CEnone,  my  own  soul, 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind  ingraven 
'  For  the   most  fair,'  would   seem    to    award   it 

thine. 
As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveHest  in  all  grace 
Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  married  brows." 

*  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 

He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine, 

And  added,  "This  was  cast  upon  the  board, 

When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of  the  Gods 
VOL.  I.  —  20 


306  (ENONE. 

Ranged  in  the  halls  of  Feleus ;  whereupon 
Rose  feud,  with  question  unto  whom  't  were  due : 
But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester-eve, 
Delivering,  that  to  me,  by  common  voice 
Elected  umpire,  Her^  comes  to-day, 
Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 
This  meed  of  fairest.     Thou,  within  the  cave 
Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest  pine, 
Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld,  unheard 
Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of  Gods," 

'  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep  midnoon :    one  silvery  cloud 
Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piney  sides 
Of  this    long    glen.     Then   to   the  bovver  they 

came, 
Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded  bower, 
And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like  fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel, 
Lotos  and  lilies ;   and  a  wind  arose. 
And  overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and  vine, 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a  wild  festoon 
Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro'  and  thro'. 


CENONE.  307 

'  O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit, 
And  o'er  him  flow'd  a  golden  cloud,  and  lean'd 
Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant  dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her  to  whom 
Coming  thro'  Heaven,  like  a  light  that  grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the  Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.     She  to  Paris  made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestion'd,  overflowing  revenue 
Wherewith   to    embellish  state,  "  from  many  a 

vale 
And    river-sunder'd    champaign    clothed   with 

corn, 
Or  labour'd  mine  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honour,"  she  said,  "  and  homage,  tax  and  toll. 
From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven  large, 
Mast-throng'd  beneath  her  shadowing  citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers." 

'  O  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake  of  power, 
"  Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all ; 
Power  fitted  to  the  season;  wisdom-bred 


3o8  CENONE. 

And   throned  of  wisdom  —  from  all  neighbour 

crowns 
Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 
Fail  from   the   sceptre-staff.     Such    boon  from 

me, 
From  me,  Heaven's  Queen,  Paris,  to  thee  king- 
born, — 
A  shepherd  all  thy  life,  but  yet  king-born,  — 
Should    come   most  welcome,    seeing   men,    in 

power 
Only,  are  likest  Gods,  who  have  attain'd 
Rest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 
Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss 
In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy." 

*  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly  fruit 
Out  at  arm's-length,  so  much   the   thought  of 

power 
Flatter'd  his  spirit ;  but  Pallas  where  she  stood 
Somewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared  limbs 
O'erthwarted  with  the  brazen-headed  spear 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold, 
The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest  eye 


(ENONE.  309 

Over  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angry  cheek 
Kept  watch,  waiting  decision,  made  reply: 

'  "  Self-reverence,  self-knowledge,  self-control. 
These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign  power. 
Yet  not  for  power  (power  of  herself 
Would  come  uncall'd  for)  but  to  live  by  law, 
Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear; 
And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow  right 
Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  consequence." 

'  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said  :  "  I  woo  thee  not  with  gifts. 
Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.     Judge  thou  me  by  what  I  am. 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed, 
If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of  fair, 
Unbias'd  by  self-profit,  oh  !  rest  thee  sure 
That  I  shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave  to  thee, 
So  that  my  vigour,  wedded  to  thy  blood, 
Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,  like  a  God's, 
To  push  thee  forward  thro'  a  life  of  shocks, 


3IO  (ENONE. 

Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance  grow 
Sinew'd  with  action,  and  the  full-grown  will, 
Circled  thro'  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasure  perfect  freedom." 

Here  she  ceas'd. 
And  Paris  ponder'd,  and  I  cried,  "  O  Paris, 
Give  it  to  Pallas !  "  but  he  heard  me  not, 
Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is  me ! 

'  O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful. 
Fresh  as  the  foam,  new-bathed  in  Paphian  wells, 
With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward  drew 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her  deep  hair 
Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid  throat 
And  shoulder :  from  the  violets  her  light  foot 
Shone  rosy-white,  and  o'er  her  rounded  form 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine-bunches 
Floated  the  glowing  sunlights,  as  she  moved. 

'Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
She  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild  eyes, 
The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing  nigh 


CENONE.  311 

Half-whisper'd  in  his  ear,  "  I  promise  thee 
The  fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in  Greece." 
She  spoke  and  laugh'd :    I   shut  my  sight   for 

fear; 
But  when  I  look'd,  Paris  had  raised  his  arm, 
And  I  beheld  great  Here's  angry  eyes, 
As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud, 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower; 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone, 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die. 

'Yet,  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Fairest  —  why  fairest  wife?  am  I  not  fair? 
My  love  hath  told  me  so  a  thousand  times. 
Methinks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday. 
When  I  past  by,  a  wild  and  wanton  pard. 
Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  playful  tail 
Crouch'd  fawning  in  the  weed.     Most  loving  is 

she? 
Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my  arms 
Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot  lips  prest 
Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick-falling  dew 
Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn  rains 
Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois ! 


312  (EXONE. 

'  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
They  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest  pines, 
My  tall  dark  pines,  that  plumed  the  craggy  ledge 
High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  between 
The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract 
Foster'd  the  callow  eaglet  —  from  beneath 
Whose   thick    mysterious    boughs    in   the    dark 

morn 
The  panther's  roar  came  muffled,  while  I  sat 
Low  in  the  valley.     Never,  never  more 
Shall  lone  CEnone  see  the  morning  mist 
Sweep  thro'  them ;   never  see  them  overlaid 
With  narrow  moon-lit  slips  of  silver  cloud, 
Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trembling  stars. 

'  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruin'd  folds. 
Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from  the  glens, 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with  her 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came 
Into  the  fair  Pele'ian  banquet-hall, 
And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  the  board, 
And  bred  this  change ;   that  I  might  speak  my 
mind, 


CENONE.  313 

And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I  hate 
Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods  and  men. 

'  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand  times, 
In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green  hill, 
Even  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this  stone? 
Seal'd  it  with  kisses?  water'd  it  with  tears? 
O  happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to  these  ! 
O  happy  Heaven,  how  canst  thou  see  my  face? 
O  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear  my  weight? 

0  death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-floating  cloud, 
There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this  earth, 

Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to  live ; 

1  pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of  life, 
And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  I  may  die. 
Thou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart  within, 
Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids ;   let  me  die. 

'  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  thoughts 
Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more  and  more. 
Whereof  I  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 
Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the  inmost  hills. 


314  CENONE. 

Like  footsteps  upon  wool.     I  dimly  see 
My  far-off  doubtful  purpose,  as  a  mother 
Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  is  born :   her  child  !  —  a  shudder  comes 
Across  me:   never  child  be  born  of  me, 
Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father's  eyes ! 

'  O  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  me,  O  earth.     I  will  not  die  alone, 
Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come  to  me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of  death 
Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.     I  will  rise  and  go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come  forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she  says 
A  fire  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound 
Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 
What  this  may  be  I  know  not,  but  I  know 
That,  wheresoe'er  I  am  by  night  and  day, 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning  fire.' 


THE  SISTERS.  3^5 


THE   SISTERS. 


We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race; 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face. 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
They  were  together,  and  she  fell ; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

She  died  :  she  went  to  burning  flame  : 
She  mix'd  her  ancient  blood  with  shame. 

The  wind  is  howling  in  turret  and  tree. 
Whole  weeks  and  months,  and  early  and  late, 
To  win  his  love  I  lay  in  wait. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  made  a  feast ;  I  bad  him  come ; 
I  won  his  love,  I  brought  him  home. 

The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and  tree. 
And  after  supper,  on  a  bed. 
Upon  my  lap  he  laid  his  head. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


3l6  THE  SISTERS. 

I  kiss'd  his  eyelids  into  rest; 

His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast. 

The  wind  is  raging  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  hated  him  with  the  hate  of  hell, 
But  I  loved  his  beauty  passing  well. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 

I  rose  up  in  the  silent  night: 

I  made  my  dagger  sharp  and  bright. 

The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and  tree. 
As  half-asleep  his  breath  he  drew, 
Three  times  I  stabb'd  him  thro'  and  thro*. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  curl'd  and  comb'd  his  comely  head, 
He  look'd  so  grand  when  he  was  dead. 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  wrapt  his  body  in  the  sheet, 
And  laid  him  at  his  mother's  feet. 

O  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see ! 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


THE   LIFE   AND    WORKS   OF   LORD   TENNYSON. 

Page  i.  —  Born  on  the  6tk  of  August,  1809.  —  The  date  has 
been  often  given  as  August  5th  ;  but  Lord  Tennyson  wrote  to 
Dr.  Van  Dyke  that  he  '  was  probably  born  in  the  early  morn- 
ing of  the  6th,  just  after  midnight,'  and  that  his  mother  used 
to  keep  his  birthday  on  August  6th.  A  careful  examination 
of  the  Somersby  Baptismal  Register  shows  that  the  6  in  the 
date  '  has  been  mistaken  for  a  5  on  account  of  the  fading  of 
the  ink  on  the  left  side  of  the  loop.'  See  also  the  fac-simile  of 
the  entry  in  Napier's  '  Homes  and  Haunts  of  Tennyson,'  p.  29. 

Page  3.  —  The  eldest  son,  George.  —  According  to  the  Parish 
Register  of  Tealby  (a  town  about  twenty  miles  to  the  north  of 
Somersby),  he  was  baptised  on  the  25th  of  May,  1806.  Dr. 
Tennyson  resided  at  Tealby  previous  to  his  settlement  at 
Somersby  in  1808. 

Charles,  who  afterwards  took  the  Jiame  of  Tur7ter.  —  The 
'  relative '  in  accordance  with  whose  will  this  was  done  was  his 
great-uncle,  the  Rev.  Samuel  Turner,  vicar  and  patron  of 
Grasby,  to  whose  estate  and  living  Charles  succeeded  in  1S35. 

Most,  if  not  all,  of  the  other  brothers  have  written  poetry.  — 
Napier  (p.  41)  adds  Septimus  and  Horatio  to  the  four  brothers 
whom  I  have  mentioned. 

Page  10.  —  In  the  spring  of  1827.  —  Dr.  Van  Dyke  (3d  ed. 
p.  324)  gives  the  date  as  1826,  on  the  authority  of  Lord  Tenny- 
son ;  but  the  poet  evidently  had  in  mind  the  time  when  the 
manuscript  was  given  to  the  printer.  The  preface  would  not 
have  been  dated  '  March,  1827,'  if  the  book  had  he^n  published 
in  1826. 


320  NOTES. 

Engaged  to  pay  ten  pounds  for  the  copyright,  and  actually  paid 
twenty.  —  Church  (p.  53)  so  states  it;  and  there  is  no  doubt 
that  the  larger  sum  was  paid,  though  the  biographers  have 
generally  made  it  the  smaller  one. 

Page  33.  —  A  poem  on  '  The  Battle  of  Armageddon^  — Napier 
(p.  124)  says:  'He  resuscitated  an  old  poem  which  he  had 
written  some  years  before  on  the  Battle  of  Armageddon,  and 
having  altered  it  a  little,  sent  it  in  for  the  theme  of  Timbuctoo.' 
One  would  infer,  from  internal  evidence,  that  the  alterations 
must  have  been  somewhat  extensive. 

Page  38.  —  In  all  quotations  of  the  passage  that  I  have  seen, 
etc.  —  Since  this  foot-note  was  in  type,  I  have  observed  that 
Jennings  (2d  ed.  p.  25)  emends  the  passage  thus  :  "he  too  is  a 
poet,  and  many  years  hence  may  read  his  juvenile  description," 
etc.  The  correction  that  I  have  suggested  seems  to  me  more 
likely  to  be  the  right  one. 

Page  47. —  The  faniily  continued  to  reside  at  Somersby  for 
several  years.  —  According  to  Church  (p.  41),  it  was  'in  the 
autumn  of  1835'  that  the  family  left  Somersby.  Napier  (p. 
137)  says  it  was  '  in  the  early  months  of  1837  ; '  and  this  date 
is  confirmed  by  a  letter  of  Alfred's  to  Monckton  Milnes,  dated 
Jan.  10,  1837,  in  which  he  writes:  'As  I  and  all  my  people 
are  going  to  leave  this  place  very  shortly  never  to  return,  I 
have  much  upon  my  hands.' 

Page  51. — A  poi-trait  of  Tennyson.  —  From  a  crayon 
drawing  by  Samuel  Lawrence,  a  lithograph  of  which,  printed 
at  Cambridge,  was  the  earliest  published  portrait  of  the  poet. 
For  further  particulars  concerning  the  Tennyson  portraits, 
busts,  etc.,  see  Shepherd's  '  Tennysoniana  '  (2d  ed.  pp.  157-169) 
and  the  illustrated  articles  by  Mr.  Theodore  Watts  in  the 
'  Magazine  of  Art '  (Cassell's)  for  January  and  February,  1893. 
Page  80.  —  /«  1861,  he  revisited  the  Pyrenees.  —  The  date 
has  been  sometimes  given  as  1862,  but  Clough's  diary  makes 
it  1 861.  It  will  be  seen  that  he  refers  to  Tennyson's  former 
visit  as  '  thirty-one  years  ago,'  while  the  poet,  in  the  verses 
quoted,  makes  it  '  two  and  thirty.'  The  former  is  the  correct 
number,  and  as  Clough  doubtless  got  it  at  the  time  from  the 
poet,  it  is  probable  that  the  latter  changed  it  in  the  verses  for 


NOTES.  321 

the  sake  of  euphony.  The  line,  '  I  walk'd  with  one  I  loved 
two  and  thirty  years  ago,'  would  be  seriously  marred  if  '  one  ' 
were  substituted  for  '  two.' 

Mr.  Waugh  (pp.  43,  1S6)  gives  the  dates  of  the  two  visits 
correctly  as  1830  and  1861,  but  (p.  186)  refers  to  the  former  as 
'  thirty-two  years  before  '  the  latter. 

Mrs.  Ritchie  (p.  23)  has  the  following  paragraph  on  the 
1830  tour :  1  — 

Once  in  their  early  youth  we  hear  of  the  two  friends,  Tennyson  and 
Hallam,  travelling  in  the  Pyrenees.  This  was  at  the  time  of  the  war 
of  Spanish  independence,  when  many  generous  young  men  went  over 
with  funds  and  good  energies  to  help  the  cause  of  liberty.  These  two 
were  taking  money,  and  letters  written  in  invisible  ink,  to  certain  con- 
spirators who  were  then  revolting  against  the  intolerable  tyranny  of 
Ferdinand,  and  who  were  chiefly  hiding  in  the  Pyrenees.  The  young 
men  met,  among  others,  a  Senor  Ojeda,  who  confided  to  Tennyson  his 
intentions,  which  were  to  confer  la  gorge  h.  tons  les  cures.  Sefior 
Ojeda  could  not  talk  English  or  fully  explain  all  his  aspirations. 
'  Mais  voiis  connaissez  man  ccettr^'  said  he,  effusively  ;  and  a  pretty 
black  one  it  is,  thought  the  poet.  I  have  heard  Tennyson  described  in 
those  days  as  'straight  and  with  a  broad  breast,'  and  when  he  had 
crossed  over  from  the  Continent  and  was  coming  back,  walking  through 
Wales,  he  went  one  day  into  a  little  wayside  inn,  where  an  old  man  sat 
by  the  fire,  who  looked  up,  and  asked  many  questions.  '  Are  you  from 
the  army  ?  Not  from  the  army  ?  Then  where  do  you  come  from .-' ' 
said  the  old  man.  '  I  am  just  come  from  the  Pyrenees,'  said  Alfred. 
'  Ah,  T  knew  there  was  a  something  !  '  said  the  wise  old  man. 

Page  82.  —  Epitaph  on  the  late  Duchess  of  Kent.  —  It  was 
inscribed  on  Mr.  Theed's  statue  of  the  Duchess,  at  Frogmore, 
and  reads  thus  :  — 

'  Her  children  rise  up  and  call  her  blessed." 

Long  as  the  heart  beats  life  within  the  breast 
Thy  child  will  bless  thee,  guardian  mother  mild, 

And  far  away  thy  memory  wiU  be  blest 
By  children  of  the  children  of  thy  child. 

1  Here,  as  elsewhere,  I  quote  from  the  book,  '  Records  of  Tennyson, 
Ruskin,  and  Browning'  (New  York,  1892),  which  gives  the  original 
magazine  articles  in  a  slightly  revised  form. 

VOL.  I.  —  21 


32  2  NOTES. 

Page  105.  —  Becket  .  .  has  been  brought  out  by  Mr.  Irving. 
—  The  'Academy'  for  Feb.  18,  1893,  says  of  the  perform- 
ance :  '  There  were  few  who  expected  that  Lord  Tennyson's 
"  Becket "  would  be,  upon  the  Lyceum  or  any  other  stage,  the 
success  that  it  has  proved  to  be.  Not  only  the  first-night 
audience,  but  the  audiences  that  have  followed  it,  and  espe- 
cially, as  we  are  able  to  testify,  the  large  and  very  representa- 
tive audience  of  last  Saturday  night,  have  shown  the  keenest 
satisfaction  in  the  piece  and  the  performance.  "  Becket  "  is 
one  of  the  most  distinct  of  the  Lyceum  successes.' 

Page  i  24.  —  //  could  but  have  been  the  unequalled  Elysian 
lines  of  Virgil.  —  Or  the  most  beautiful  of  the  many  tributes 
in  verse  called  forth  by  the  death  of  the  poet  on  either  side  of 
the  Atlantic,  —  the  '  Elysian  lines  'prefixed  by  Rev.  Dr.  Henry 
van  Dyke  to  the  third  edition  of  '  The  Poetry  of  Tennyson ' : 

TENNYSON 

In  Lucem  Transitus 

October  6,  1892. 

From  the  silent  shores  of  midnight,  touched  with  splendours  of  the 

moon, 
To  the  singing  tides  of  heaven  and  the  light  more  clear  than  noon, 
Passed  a  soul  that  grew  to  music,  till  it  was  with  God  in  tune. 

Brother  of  the  greatest  poets,  —  true  to  nature,  true  to  art,  — 

Lover  of  Immortal  Love,  — uplifter  of  the  human  heart, 

Who  shall  help  us  with  high  music,  who  shall  sing  if  thou  depart  ? 

Silence  here,  for  love  is  silent,  gazing  on  the  lessening  sail ; 
Silence  here,  for  grief  is  voiceless  when  the  mighty  poets  fail ; 
Silence  here,  —  but  far  above  us,  many  voices  crying,  Hail  1 


NOTES.  323 


POEMS. 

To  THE  Queen. 
These  verses  first  appeared  in  the  seventh  edition  of  the 
'  Poems  '  in  1851.     For  a  stanza  afterwards  omitted,  see  p.  63 
above. 

Page  132.  —  And  statesmen  at  her  coimcil  met.  —  This  stanza 
was  once  quoted  by  Mr.  Gladstone  in  the  House  of  Commons 
with  remarkable  effect.  Lord  John  Manners,  in  an  argument 
against  political  change,  had  quoted  the  poet's  description  of 
England  as 

A  land  of  old  and  wide  renown 
Where  Freedom  broadens  slowly  down. 

The  retort  was  none  the  less  effective  because  the  passage 
was  taken  from  a  different  poem. 

Claribel. 

First  published  in  1830. 

Page  133.  —  At  noo7i  the  wild  bee  himuneth.  —  The  original 
reading  was  '  At  noon  the  bee  low  hummeth.' 

Some  critic  has  suggested  that  the  reference  to  '  eve  '  is 
placed  before  that  to  '  noon '  in  order  that  the  imperfect  rhyme 
in  '  boometh '  may  not  come  between  '  hummeth  '  and  '  cometh.' 

Page  134.  —  The  callow  throstle  lispeth.  —  The  earlier  reading 
was  '  The  fledgling  throstle  lispeth.' 

The  babbling  runnel  crispeth.  —  Compare  the  '  Song,'  p.  152  : 
•  Down-carolling  to  the  crisped  sea ; '  and  Milton's  '  crisped 
brooks  '  ('  Paradise  Lost,'  iv.  237). 

Nothing  will  die. 
This   poem   and   the   next,  first   published   in    1S30,  were 
omitted  in  1842,  but  subsequently  restored.     No  change  has 
been  made  in  either. 

Leonine  Elegiacs. 
Published  in  1830  with  the  title  '  Elegiacs,'  omitted  in  1S42, 
but  afterwards  restored  without  change. 


324  NOTES. 

Page  141.  —  The  ancient  poetess.  —  Compare  *  Locksley 
Hall  Sixty  Years  After  ' :  '  Hesper,  whom  the  poet  call'd  the 
Bringer  home  of  all  good  things.'  The  allusion  is  to  the 
fragment  of  Sappho  :  — 

"EcTTrepe,  travTO.  (p^pus  • 
^4piis  olvov,  <pfpfis  aJya, 
4>epeij  ixoLTipi  iroiSa. 

Byron's  paraphrase  in  '  Don  Juan'  (iii.  107)  is  familiar:  — 

O  Hesperus  !  thou  bringest  all  good  things  — 

Home  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  cheer, 
To  the  young  bird  the  parent's  brooding  wings, 

The  welcome  stall  to  the  o'er-labour'd  steer  ; 
Whate'er  of  peace  about  our  hearth-stone  clings, 

Whate'er  our  household  gods  protect  of  dear. 
Are  gather'd  round  us  by  thy  look  of  rest ; 

Thou  bring'st  the  child,  too,  to  the  mother's  breast. 

Supposed  Confessions  of  a  Second-rate  Sensitive 
Mind. 

This  poem,  published  in  1830,  was  suppressed  for  more 
than  fifty  years.  In  1879  the  '  Christian  Signal,'  an  English 
journal,  announced  that  its  issue  for  September  6th  would 
contain  '  an  early  unpublished  poem  of  over  two  hundred  lines 
by  Alfred  Tennyson  (P.  L.),  entitled  "Confessions  of  a  Sensi- 
tive Mind  ;  "'  but  the  publication  was  prevented  by  a  legal  in- 
junction. In  1884  the  poem  was  included  in  the  complete 
edition  of  the  Laureate's  works. 

The  original  title  was  '  Supposed  Confessions  of  a  Second- 
rate  Sensitive  Mind  not  in  Unity  with  Itself.'  In  the  poem  as 
restored  the  following  lines,  after  '  With  hopeful  grief,  were 
passing  sweet '  (p.  143),  were  omitted  :  — 

A  grief  not  uninformed,  and  dull, 
Hearted  with  hope,  of  hope  as  full 
As  is  the  blood  with  life,  or  night 
And  a  dark  cloud  with  rich  moonlight. 
To  stand  beside  a  grave,  and  see 
The  red  small  atoms  wherewith  we 


NOTES.  325 

Are  built,  and  smile  in  calm,  and  say  — 
'  These  little  motes  and  grains  shall  be 
Clothed  on  with  immortality 
More  glorious  than  the  noon  of  day. 
All  that  is  pass'd  into  the  flowers, 
And  into  beasts  and  other  men, 
And  all  the  Norland  whirlwind  showers 
From  open  vaults,  and  all  the  sea 
O'erwashes  with  sharp  salts,  again 
Shall  fleet  together  all,  and  be 
Indued  with  immortality.' 

The  only  other  change  is  '  rosy  fingers  '  for  '  waxen  fingers  '  in 
the  third  line  on  p.  144. 

The  '  Westminster  Review'  (see  p.  37  above)  recognised  in 
this  poem  '  an  extraordinary  combination  of  deep  reflection, 
metaphysical  analysis,  picturesque  description,  dramatic  tran- 
sition, and  strong  emotion.'  Arthur  Hallam,  in  the  '  English- 
man's Magazine  '  (p.  39  above),  said  of  it :  '  The  "  Confessions 
of  a  Second-rate  Sensitive  Mind  "  are  full  of  deep  insight  into 
human  nature,  and  into  those  particular  trials  which  are  sure 
to  beset  men  who  think  and  feel  for  themselves  at  this  epoch 
of  social  development.  The  title  is  perhaps  ill  chosen ;  not 
only  has  it  an  appearance  of  quaintness,  which  has  no  sufiicient 
reason,  but  it  seems  to  us  incorrect.  The  mood  pourtrayed  in 
this  poem,  unless  the  admirable  skill  of  delineation  has  de- 
ceived us,  is  rather  the  clouded  season  of  a  strong  mind  than 
the  habitual  condition  of  one  feeble  and  second-rate.' 

Page  150. —  The  busy  fret  Of  that  sharp-headed  worm.  — 
Compare  '  A  Dirge  '  (p.  200)  :  — 

Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form  ; 

and  '  The  Palace  of  Art '  (vol.  ii.  p.  15)  :  — 

And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all, 
On  corpses  three-months-old  at  noon  she  came, 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 


326  NOTES. 

The  Kraken. 

Published  in  1830,  omitted  in  1842,  but  afterwards  restored 
without  change. 

Page  151.  —  Then  once  by  man  and  angels  to  be  seen.  —  This 
is  the  reading  of  all  the  English  editions ;  but  in  Barry  Corn- 
wall's copy  of  the  1830  volume  (now  in  the  possession  of  Dr, 
Henry  van  Dyke)  'man'  is  altered  to  'men'  in  the  margin. 

Song. 

In  1S30  the  title  was  '  We  are  Free,'  and  the  two  stanzas 
were  printed  as  one.  The  poem  was  omitted  in  1S42,  but 
subsequently  restored  with  no  further  change. 

Page  i  52.  —  The  crisped  sea.  —  See  note  on  '  The  babbling 
runnel  crispeth,'  p.  323  above. 

Lilian. 
First   published   in    1830,   and   reprinted   in  1842   with   no 
change  except '  gather'd  wimple  '  for  '  purfled  wimple.'     For  the 
original  reading,  compare  Milton,  '  Comus,'  992  :  '  Than  her 
purfled  scarf  can  shew.' 

Isabel. 

First  published  in  1830.  The  only  change  in  1842  was 
'  blanched  '  for  '  blenched,'  which  was  probably  a  misprint. 

Mrs.  Annie  Fields,  in  an  interesting  article  on  '  Tennyson ' 
in  '  Harper's  Magazine '  for  January,  1893  (?•  31°)'  remarks 
that  this  poem  '  possesses  a  peculiar  interest,  because  it  is  un- 
derstood to  be  the  poet's  tribute  to  his  wife,  and  indeed  even 
his  imaginative  eye  could  hardly  elsewhere  have  found  another 
to  whom  this  description  would  so  properly  fit ; '  and  she  goes 
on  to  quote  the  second  stanza.  Whether  the  poet  in  this 
ideal  portrait  of  a  '  perfect  wife  '  had  in  mind  the  lady  who, 
twenty  years  later,  became  his  wife  may  be  doubted  ;  but  how 
completely  she  fulfilled  that  ideal  the  tributes  he  subsequently 
paid  her  in  his  verse  amply  testify.  '  The  Daisy,'  published  in 
1855,  but  written  some  three  years  earlier  (as  the  reference 
to  the  baby  Hallam,  born  in  August,   1852,  indicates),  was 


NOTES. 


327 


addressed  to  her.     In  'A  Dedication'  in  the  'Enoch  Arden' 
volume  in  1864,  he  apostrophised  her  thus  :  — 

Dear,  near,  and  true —  no  truer  Time  himself 
Can  prove  you,  tho'  lie  make  you  evermore 
Dearer  and  nearer. 

And  his  last  volume,  the  posthumous  '  Death  of  Qinone,'  was 
inscribed  to  her  at  *  seventy-seven,'  — 

With  a  faith  as  clear  as  the  heights  of  the  June-blue  heaven, 

And  a  fancy  as  summer-new 

As  the  green  of  the  bracken  amid  the  bloom  of  the  heather. 

Page  156.  —  An  accent  very  low. — Compare  'King  Lear,' 

V.  3.  272  :  — 

Her  voice  was  ever  soft, 
Gentle,  and  low  —  an  excellent  thing  in  woman. 

Mariana. 

First  printed  in  1830,  and  very  slightly  altered  in  1S42 
and  subsequently.  It  was  commended  in  the  '  Westminster 
Review'  for  July,  1835,  as  illustrating  the  poet's  power  in 
'  scene-painting,  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  term,  .  .  .  the 
power  of  creating  scenery  in  keeping  with  some  state  of 
human  feeling ;  or  so  fitted  to  it  as  to  be  the  embodied  sym- 
bol of  it,  and  to  summon  up  the  state  of  feeling  itself,  with  a 
force  not  to  be  surpassed  by  anything  but  reality.'  Bayard 
Taylor  ('  International  Review,'  vol.  iv.  p.  404)  calls  it  'a  pic- 
ture in  the  absolute  Pre-Raphaelite  manner,  written  more  than 
a  dozen  years  before  Pi-e-Raphaelitism  was  heard  of  in  art.' 

Page  i  58.  —  That  held  the  pear  to  the  gable-wall.  —  The 
first  reading  was  '  The  peach  to  the  garden-wall.'  Bayard 
Taylor,  writing  in  1877  (in  the  review  of  Tennyson  cited 
above),  quotes  the  poet  as  saying:  '  There  is  my  "  Mariana," 
for  example.  A  line  in  it  is  wrong,  and  I  cannot  possibly 
change  it,  because  it  has  been  so  long  published ;  yet  it  always 
annoys  me.  I  wrote  "  That  held  the  peach  to  the  garden- 
wall."  Now  this  is  not  a  characteristic  of  the  scenery  I  had 
in  mind.  The  line  should  be  "  That  held  the  pear  to  the 
gable-wall." '      Whether    this   conversation   occurred    during 


328  NOTES. 

Taylor's  visit  to  Tennyson  in  1857  (see  p.  74  above),  I  cannot 
say ;  but  the  line  was  changed  in  the  printed  poem  at  least  as 
early  as  1875,  or  two  years  before  the  review  was  written. 

Page  159.  —  She  heard  the  night-frnvl  crow.  —  There  has 
been  some  discussion  in  the  English  '  Notes  and  Queries'  and 
elsewhere  as  to  the  birds  meant  by  'night-fowl.'  It  can  hardly 
be  the  cock  mentioned  in  the  next  line,  though  'crow'  (prob- 
ably used  for  the  sake  of  the  rhyme)  would  suggest  that  bird. 
It  appears  to  be  used  in  a  general  way  for  the  various  birds 
that  are  more  or  less  heard  at  night  in  Lincolnshire,  where 
the  scene  is  laid. 

Page  160. —  The  duster'' d  marish-mosses. —  For  the  old 
form  'marish'  (now  used  only  in  poetry),  compare  'The 
Dying  Swan ' :  '  And  far  thro'  the  marish  green  and  still ; ' 
and  '  the  silvery  marish-flowers  ; '  and  '  On  a  Mourner ' :  '  With 
moss  and  braided  marish-pipe.' 

IVo  other  tree  did  mark.  —  Originally  '  did  dark  ; '  retained 
in  1842,  but  changed  as  early  as  1856. 

The  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away.  —  The  1830  reading 
was  'up  an'  away;'  changed  in  1842.  In  the  next  stanza 
the  original  '  sung  1'  the  pane'  was  retained  in  1842  and  in 
all  the  editions  I  have  seen  down  to  1875. 

Page  161.  —  Was  slopi7ig  toward  his  western  bower.  —  Origi- 
nally '  Downsloped  ^  was  westering  in  his  bower ; '  changed 
in  1842. 

To . 

First  printed  in  1830,  and  retained  in  1842  with  no  change 
except  in  the  third  and  fourth  lines,  which  originally  read : 

The  knotted  lies  of  human  creeds, 
The  wounding  cords  which  bind  and  strain. 

Page  162.  —  With  shrilling  shafts  of  subtle  wit.  —  Compare 
'The  Talking  Oak':  'And  shrill'd  his  tinsel  shaft.' 

1  In  the  volumes  of  1S30  and  1833,  compound  words  are,  with 
rare  exceptions,  printed  without  the  hyphen ;  as  '  silverchiming,' 
'gardenbowers,'  '  mountainstreams, '  etc. 


NOTES.  329 

Page  163.  —  Like  that  strange  angel.  —  Compare  Genesis, 
xxxii.  22-32. 

Madeline. 
First  printed  in   1830,  without  the  division  into  stanzas, 
which  was  made  in  1842.     The  only  other  change  (except  the 
spelling  'airy'  for  'aery')  is  'amorously'  for  'three   times 
three '  in  the  last  stanza. 

Song  —  The  Owl. 
This,  with  the  '  Second  Song  to  the  Same,'  was  reprinted 
in  1842  from  the  1830  volume  without  alteration. 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 

This  poem,  one  of  the  best  in  the  volume  of  1830,  was 
reprinted  in  1842  with  a  few  trivial  changes.  As  Tainsh  says, 
it  was  '  interesting  as  foreshadowing  the  power  of  detailed 
description,  vivid  and  very  pictorial,  which  shows  itself  fully 
in  "  The  Palace  of  Art."  '  Peter  Bayne  remarks  that  it  '  deci- 
sively announced  the  rise  of  a  great  poet.' 

Page  170.  —  Of  braided  blooms.  —  The  1830  volume  has 
*  Of  breaded  blosms.' 

Page  172. — Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung.  —  For  the 
Persian   name  of   the   nightingale,  compare  '  The    Princess,' 

iv.  103 :  — 

'  Not  for  thee,'  she  said, 
'  O  Bulbul,  any  rose  of  Gulistan 
Shall  burst  her  veil.' 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots.  — The  1830  reading  was 
'  Blackgreen '  for  '  Black.' 

Page  173.  —  Their  interspaces,  coiinterchanged  The  level  lake 
with  diamond-plots.  —  Compare  '  In  Memoriam,'  Ixxxix. :  — 
Witch-elms  that  counterchange  the  floor 
Of  this  flat  lawn  with  dusk  and  bright. 

Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid.  —  The  1830  volume  has 
'  unrayed  '  for  '  inlaid  ; '  and  below  '  I  was  borne  '  for  '  I  was 
drawn.' 


330  NOTES 

Page  174.  —  Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn.  —  The  obso- 
lete rosaries  (Latin  rosaria),  for  rose-gardens  or  rose-beds,  is 
rare  in  poetry.  I  liave  met  with  no  other  modern  example  of 
it ;  and  *  silvers '  for  silver  candlesticks  below  is  perhaps  also 
unique. 

Page  175.  — DiaJ'er'd.  —  Entirely  covered,  as  in  diaper-work, 
technically  so  called.     Compare  Spenser,  '  Epithalamion,'  51 : 
Be  strewed  with  fragrant  flowers  all  along, 
And  diapred  lyke  the  discolored  mead. 

Ode  to  Memory. 

The    1830  volume,   instead   of   'Addressed   to ,'   has 

'  Written  very  Early  in  Life.'    The  changes  in  1842  were  few 
and  slight. 

Page  179.  —  Sure  she  was  nigher  to  heave/t's  spheres,  etc.  — 
Compare  the  prize  poem  of  '  Timbuctoo,'  1829  :  — 
I  have  raised  thee  nigher  to  the  spheres  of  heaven, 
Man's  first,  last  home ;  and  thou  with  ravish'd  sense 
Listenest  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
Th'  illimitable  years. 

Co7ne  from  the  woods  that  belt,  etc.  —  See  p.  6  above. 

Page  iSi. —  The  high  field  on  the  bushless  Pike.  —  One 
meaning  of  'pike,'  according  to  Halliwell's  'Archaic  and  Pro- 
vincial Dictionary,'  is  'the  top  of  a  hill,'  —  not  necessarily  a 
steep,  pointed  hill,  like  the  Pikes  of  the  English  Lake  Dis- 
trict, though  the  dictionaries  generally  recognise  only  this 
latter  meaning  of  the  word  as  applied  to  a  hill.  Of  course 
there  are  no  such  pikes,  or  peaks,  in  Lincolnshire,  and  there 
could  not  be  a  'field'  on  the  top  of  them  anywhere. 

Like  emblems  of  infinity.  —  Originally  '  Emblems  or  glimpses 
of  infinity.' 

Page  182.  —  With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose.  —  Origi- 
nally 'pleached   alleys,'  which  means   the   same.      Compare 
'  Much  Ado  About  Nothing,'  i.  2.  10  :  '  a  thick-pleached  alley  in 
mine  orchard ; '  and  the  same  play,  iii.  1.7:  — 
the  pleached  bower, 
Where  honeysuckles,  ripen'd  by  the  sun, 
Forbid  the  sun  to  enter. 


NOTES.  331 

And  those  whom  passion  hath  not  blinded.  —  The  1S30 
volume  has  'The  few  whom,'  etc.;  and  just  below:  — 

My  friend,  with  thee  to  live  alone, 
Methinlcs  were  better  than  to  own 
A  crown,  a  sceptre,  and  a  throne  ! 

Song. 

In  the  1830  volume,  and  reprinted  without  change. 

A  Character. 
Also  from  the  1830  volume  without  change. 

The  Poet. 

For  this  poem,  see  pages  37  and  38  above.  The  only 
change  made  in  it  since  1S30  (except  'secretest '  for  '  secret'st ' 
in  the  third  stanza)  is  in  the  twelfth  stanza,  which  originally 
read  thus  :  — 

And  in  the  bordure  of  her  robe  was  writ 

Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 

Hoar  anarchies,  as  with  a  thunderfit, 

And  when  she  spake,  etc. 

Page  187.  —  Dozoer'd  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of 
scorn,  etc.  —  That  is,  with  hatred  of  hate,  etc.  Rev.  F.  W. 
Robertson  explains  it  thus  :  '  That  is,  the  Prophet  of  Truth 
receives  for  his  dower  the  scorn  of  men  in  whom  scorn  dwells, 
hatred  from  men  who  hate,  while  his  reward  is  the  gratitude 
and  affection  of  men  who  seek  the  truth  which  they  love, 
more  eagerly  than  the  faults  which  their  acuteness  can  blame.' 
A  very  intelligent  lady  once  told  me  that  she  had  always  un- 
derstood '  hate  of  hate '  to  mean  the  utmost  intensity  of  hate, 
etc.,  the  poet's  passions  and  sensibilities  being  to  those  of 
ordinary  men  'as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto 
wine.' 

From  Calpe  icnto  Caucasus. —  Calpe,  one  of  the  Pillars  of 
Hercules,  was  a  western  limit  of  the  ancient  world,  as  Cauca- 
sus was  an  eastern. 


332  *  NOTES. 

The  Poet's  Mind. 
Reprinted  from  the  volume  of  1830,  with  the  omission  of 
the  following  passage  after  the  seventh  line :  — 

Clear  as  summer  mountainstreams, 

Bright  as  the  inwoven  beams, 

Which  beneath  their  crisping  sapphire 

In  the  midday,  floating  o'er 

The  golden  sands,  make  evermore 

To  a  blossomstarred  shore. 

Hence  away,  unhallowed  laugher  I 

The  second  line  of  the  second  stanza  was  originally  '  The 
poet's  mind  is  holy  ground.' 

The  Sea-Fairies. 

This  poem,  first  printed  in  1830,  was  suppressed  until  1853, 
when  it  appeared,  with  many  changes,  in  the  eighth  edition 
of  the  '  Poems.' 

Page  192.  —  Betwixt  the  green  battk.  —  The  first  reading 
was  '  Between  the  green  bank.' 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither  away  ?  fly  no  more.  — 
In  the  1830  volume  the  remainder  of  the  poem  is  as  follows : 

Whither  away  wi'  the  singing  sail  ?  whither  away  wi'  the  oar  ? 
Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field,  and  the  happy  blossoming  shore  ? 
Weary  mariners,  hither  away, 

One  and  all,  one  and  all, 
Weary  mariners,  come  and  play ; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day; 

Furl  the  sail  and  the  foam  will  fall 

From  the  prow  !     One  and  all 

Furl  the  sail !  drop  the  oar  ! 
Leap  ashore  ! 
Know  danger  and  trouble  and  toil  no  moret 
Whither  away  wi'  the  sail  and  the  oar  ? 

Drop  the  oar, 
Leap  ashore, 
Fly  no  more  I 
Whither  away  wi'  the  sail  f  whither  away  wi'  the  oar  ? 


NOTES.  333 

Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  fountain  calls : 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  waterfalls 

From  wandering  over  the  lea ; 
They  freshen  the  silvery-crimson  shells, 
And  thick  with  white  bells  the  cloverhill  swells 

High  over  the  fulltoned  sea. 
Merrily  carol  the  revelling  gales 

Over  the  islands  free  : 
From  the  green  seabanks  the  rose  down  trails 

To  the  happy  brimmed  sea. 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our  lords, 

For  merry  brides  are  we  . 
We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak  sweet  words. 
Oh  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 

With  pleasure  and  love  and  revelry  ; 
Oh  listen,  listen,  3'our  eyes  shall  glisten. 
When  the  clear  sharp  twang  of  the  golden  chords 
Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 
Ye  will  not  find  so  happy  a  shore, 
Weary  mariners  I  all  the  world  o'er ; 
Oh  !  fly  no  more  ! 
Harken  ye,  barken  ye,  sorrow  shall  darken  ye, 
Danger  and  trouble  and  toil  no  more ; 
Whither  away? 

Drop  the  oar; 
Hither  away, 
Leap  ashore ; 
Oh  fly  no  more  —  no  more. 
Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither  away  with  the  sail  and  the  oar  ? 

The  Deserted  House. 
First  printed  in  1830,  omitted  in  1842,  but  subsequently 
restored  without  alteration. 

The  Dying  Swan. 
Reprinted  in  1842  from  the  volume  of  1S30  with  two  slight 
verbal  changes  :  '  And  loudly  did  lament '  for  '  Which  loudly,' 
etc. ;  and  '  Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow '  for  '  sung  the 
swallow.' 


334  NOTES. 

A  Dirge. 

Reprinted  in  1S42  from  the  volume  of  1S30  wittiout  altera- 
tion. 

Page  200. — The  silver  birk.  —  Birk  is  a  Northern  English 
and  Scotch  form  for  birch. 

Fretteth  thine  enshrouded for7n.  —  See  note  on  The  biisy  fret, 
etc.,  p.  325  above. 

Page  201. —  The  woodbine  and  eglatere.  —  The  'Century 
Dictionary '  calls  eglatere  '  a  spurious  modern  archaism,'  the 
correct  form  being  eglentere  or  eglentier. 

And  long  purples  of  the  dale.  —  The  '  early  purple  orchis  ' 
{Orchis  mascula). —  In  the  1830  volume  'long  purples'  is 
printed  as  a  quotation.  The  poet  doubtless  decided  after- 
wards that  the  allusion  to  poor  Ophelia's  flowers  ('  Hamlet,' 
iv.  7.  171)  was  too  familiar  to  call  for  acknowledgment. 

Love  and  Death. 
Reprinted  in  1842  from  the  1830  volume  without  alteration. 
Page  203.  —  Life  eminent.  —  That  is,  standing  above  other 
things;  the  etymological  sense  of  the  word. 

The  Ballad  of  Oriana. 
Reprinted  in  1842  with  no  change  from  the  original  version 
of  1830. 

Circumstance. 
Reprinted  in  1842  from  the  volume  of  1830,  with  no  change 
except  in  the  last  line,  which  originally  began,  '  Fill  up  the 
round,'  etc. 

The  Merman. 
This   poem  and  the  next  one   reprinted  in   1842  with    no 
change  from  the  1830  text. 

Page    210.  —  The    white    sea-flower.  —  Perhaps    the    sea- 
anemone,  which,  though  an  animal,  gets  its  name  from  the 
resemblance  of  its  outspread  tentacles  to  the  petals  of  a  flower. 
Page    211. —  Tnrkis  and  agate  and   alniondine. —  Turkis 
represents  the  pronunciation  properly  belonging  to  the  word 


NOTES.  335 

now  commonly  spelled  turquoise.  Alviondine  or  almandine  is  a 
precious  stone  first  brought  from  Alabanda,  a  city  in  Asia 
Minor.  The  name  is  a  corruption  of  the  Latin  adjective 
Alabandina  [gemtiia  being  understood). 

Adeline. 
Reprinted  in  1S42  from  the  1S30  volume,  with  two  slight 
changes   in   the   fifth   stanza :    '  the   side   of    the   morn '   for 
'  the   side   o'  the   morn,'  and  '  locks   a-drooping '  for  '  locks 
a-dropping.' 

Margaret. 

First  printed  in  the  volume  of  1833,  and  slightly  changed 
in  1842. 

Page  221.  —  The  lion-heart,  Plantagenet.  —  Originally  '  The 
lion-souled  Plantagenet.'  The  allusion  to  the  story  of 
Richard  I.  and  Blondel  needs  no  explanation.  Chatelet, 
mentioned  just  below,  was  proscribed  in  the  Reign  of  Terror 
and  executed  in  December,  1793. 

Page  222.  —  Attd  less  aerially  blue. — The  original  reading 
was  '  And  more  aerially  blue,'  with  '  And  '  instead  of  '  But '  in 
the  next  line. 

Rosalind. 
Printed  in   1833,  but  suppressed  until   1884,  when  it  was 
restored  without  any  change  in  the  poem  itself.     In  1833  the 
following  was  appended  to  it :  — 

NOTE   TO    ROSALIND. 

Perhaps  the  following  lines  may  be  allowed  to  stand  as  a  separate  poem  ; 
originally  they  made  part  of  the  text,  where  they  were  manifestly 
improper. 

My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

Bold,  subtle,  careless  Rosalind, 

Is  one  of  those  who  know  no  strife 

Of  inward  woe  or  outward  fear  , 

To  whom  the  slope  and  stream  of  Life, 

The  life  before,  the  life  behind, 

In  the  ear,  from  far  and  near. 


336  NOTES. 

Chimeth  musically  clear. 
My  falconhearted  Rosalind, 
FuUsailed  before  a  vigorous  wind, 
Is  one  of  those  who  cannot  weep 
For  others'  woes,  but  overleap 
All  the  petty  shocks  and  fears 
That  trouble  life  in  early  years, 
With  a  flash  of  frolic  scorn 
And  keen  delight,  that  never  falls 
Away  from  freshness,  self-upborne 
With  such  gladness  as,  whenever 
The  freshflushing  springtime  calls 
To  the  flooding  waters  cool, 
Young  fishes,  on  an  April  morn, 
Up  and  down  a  rapid  river. 
Leap  the  little  waterfalls 
That  sing  into  the  pebbled  pool. 
My  happy  falcon,  Rosalind, 
Hath  daring  fancies  of  her  own. 
Fresh  as  the  davm  before  the  day. 
Fresh  as  the  early  seasmell  blown 
Through  vineyards  from  an  inland  bay. 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 
Because  no  shadow  on  you  falls. 
Think  you  hearts  are  tennisballs. 
To  play  vrith,  wanton  Rosalind  ? 

Eleanore. 
Reprinted    in    1842    from    the    1833  volume,   with    some 
changes  in  the  seventh  and  eighth  stanzas. 

Page  229.  —  How  may  full-saiPd  verse  express.  —  Evidently 
a  reminiscence  of  Shakespeare,  Sonnet  86 :  '  Was  it  the 
proud  full  sail  of  his  great  verse,'  etc. 

Page  231.  —  Roofd  the  world  with  doubt  and  fear.  —  Origi- 
nally '  Did  roof  noonday,'  etc. 

Page  232.  —  As  waves  that  up  a  quiet  cave,  etc.  The 
original  reading  was  :  — 

As  waves  that  from  the  outer  deep 

Roll  into  a  quiet  cove, 

There  fall  away,  and  lying  still. 


NOTES.  337 

Having  glorious  dreams  in  sleep, 

Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will : 

Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move,  etc. 

While  the  amorous,  odorous  wind.  —  Originally  '  When  the 
amorous,'  etc. 

Page  233.  —  /  watch  thy  grace,  etc.  —  For  this  line  the 
edition  of  1833  had  the  following  :  — 

I  gaze  on  thee  the  cloudless  noon 
Of  mortal  beauty  :  in  its  place,  etc. 

Floweth  ;  and  then,  as  in  a  swoon.  —  Originally  '  Floweth  ; 
then  I  faint,  I  swoon.* 

My  Life  is  full  of  Weary  Days. 

First  printed  in  1833,  with  the  heading  '  To .*     The 

first  two  stanzas  were  not  reprinted  until  1865,  when  they 
appeared  in  the  volume  of  'Selections'  in  their  present  form. 
The  original  reading  was  as  follows  :  — 

I. 

All  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof, 

Nor  wander'd  into  other  ways  : 
I  have  not  lacked  thy  mild  reproof. 

Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise, 

But  life  is  full  of  weary  days. 

II. 
Shake  hands,  my  friend,  across  the  brink 

Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I  go. 
Shake  hands  once  more  :  I  cannot  sink 

So  far  —  far  down,  but  I  shall  know 

Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 

The  next  three  stanzas  were  added  later,  with  no  change 
except  'scritches  of  the  jay'  for  'laughters  of  the  jay,'  and 
'  darnel '  for  '  darnels.' 

The  following  stanzas,  with  which  the  poem  originally 
ended  (connected  closely  with  the  preceding,  there  being 
only  a  comma  after  '  the  woodbines  blow '),  have  not  been 
restored  :  — 

VOL.  I. —  22 


$$$  NOTES. 

VI. 

If  thou  art  blest,  my  mother's  smile 
Undimmed,  if  bees  are  on  the  wing : 

Then  cease,  my  friend,  a  little  while, 
That  I  may  hear  the  throstle  sing 
His  bridal  song,  the  boast  of  spring. 

VII. 

Sweet  as  the  noise  in  parched  plains 
Of  bubbling  wells  that  fret  the  stones 

(If  any  sense  in  me  remains), 
Thy  words  will  be  ;  thy  cheerful  tones 
As  welcome  to  my  crumbling  bones. 

The  '  Quarterly  Review  '  for  July,  1833,  had  its  fling  at  the 
line,  '  If  any  sense  in  me  remains.'  '  This  doubt,'  it  says, 
is  '  inconsistent  with  the  opening  stanza  of  the  piece,  and,  in 
fact,  too  modest ;  we  take  upon  ourselves  to  reassure  Mr. 
Tennyson  that,  even  after  he  shall  be  dead  and  buried,  as 
much  "  sejtse  "  will  still  remain  as  he  has  now  the  good 
fortune  to  possess.' 

Page  235.  —  New-flush'' d  with  may.  —  That  is,  with  the 
blossoms  of  the  hawthorn.  Compare '  The  Miller's  Daughter : ' 
'  The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white  with  may.'  Here,  as  there, 
some  of  the  American  reprints  put  '  May  '  for  '  may.' 

Early  Sonnets. 

I.  To . —  In  the  1833  volume,  but  suppressed  in  1842. 

The  original  version  has  '  a  confused  dream  '  in  the  third 
line ;  '  Altho'  I  knew  not '  in  the  twelfth ;  and  the  last  line 
reads,  '  And  each  had  lived  in  the  other's  mind  and  speech.' 
In  the  eighth  line  '  hath  '  is  italicised. 

II.  To  J.  M.  K. —  Reprinted  in  1842  from  the  1830  vol- 
ume. It  is  addressed  to  John  Mitchell  Kemble  (1807-1857), 
who  was  a  fellow-student  of  the  poet  at  Cambridge.  He  gave 
up  his  purpose  of  entering  the  Church  (to  which  this  sonnet 
refers),  and  devoted  himself  to  Anglo-Saxon  studies. 

III.  —  In  the  1833  volume,  but  suppressed  in  1842.  In  the 
first  line  '  full '  was  originally  '  fierce ; '  and  in  the  twelfth 
'  warm '  was  '  great.' 


A'OTES.  339 

IV.  Alexander.  —  First  published  in  the  'Library 
Edition  '  of  the  '  Poems,'  1S72-73. 

The  story  of  the  visit  of  Alexander  to  the  oracle  of  Jupiter 
Ammon  in  the  Libyan  Desert  is  well-known. 

V.  Buonaparte.  —  In  the  1S33  volume,  but  suppressed  in 
1842.  The  only  variation  from  the  original  version  is  in  the 
third  line,  which  had  '  that '  for  '  who.'  For  the  Scriptural 
allusion  in  the  last  line,  see  Judges,  viii.  7,  16. 

VL  Poland.  —  In  the  1833  volume,  where  it  is  entitled 
'  On  the  Result  of  the  late  Russian  Invasion  of  Poland  ; ' 
suppressed  in  1842.  The  original  version  had  '  How  long 
shall  the  icy-hearted  Muscovite '  in  the  tenth  line. 

VII.  —  This  sonnet  and  the  two  that  follow  were  first 
printed  in  the  '  Selections  '  of  1865,  with  the  heading,  '  Three 
Sonnets  to  a  Coquette.'  The  only  alterations  are  in  the  first 
line  of  VII.,  which  originally  had  '  dainty '  for  '  slender,' 
and  the  fifth  line  of  VIII.,  which  had  '  waltzing-circle  '  for 
'  whirling  dances.' 

At  the  end  of  IX.  there  is  an  allusion  to  the  old  proverb, 
'  A  green  Christmas  makes  a  fat  churchyard.' 

X.  —  Printed  in  1833,  but  suppressed  in  1842.  The  origi- 
nal reading  of  the  first  line  was  '  But  were  I  loved,'  etc. 

XI.  The  Brides.maid.  —  Like  IV.,  first  printed  in  1872. 


The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

First  printed  in  1833,  and  much  altered  in  1842. 
The  last  four  lines  of  the  first  stanza  were  originally  as 
follows  :  — 

The  yellowleaved  waterlily, 
The  greensheathed  daffodilly, 
Tremble  in  the  water  chilly. 

Round  about  Shalott. 

The  next  stanza  began  thus  :  — 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  shiver. 

The  sunbeam-showers  break  and  quiver 

In  the  stream  that  runneth  ever,  eic. 


340  NOTES. 

The  first  reading  of  the  third  and  fourth  stanzas  was  :  — 

Underneath  the  bearded  barley, 
The  reaper,  reaping  late  and  early, 
Hears  her  ever  chanting  cheerly, 
Like  an  angel,  singing  clearly, 

O'er  the  stream  of  Camelot. 
Piling  the  sheaves  in  furrows  airy. 
Beneath  the  moon,  the  reaper  weary 
Listening  whispers,  "t  is  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott.' 

The  little  isle  is  all  inrailed 
With  a  rose-fence,  and  overtraded 
With  roses  :  by  the  marge  unhailed 
The  shallop  flitteth  silkensailed. 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot. 
A  pearlgarland  winds  her  head  : 
She  leaneth  on  a  velvet  bed, 
Full  royally  apparellfed, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Part  n.  goes  on  thus  :  — 

No  time  hath  she  to  sport  and  play : 
A  charmfed  web  she  weaves  alway. 
A  curse  is  on  her,  if  she  stay 
Her  weaving,  either  night  or  day. 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be ; 
Therefore  she  weaveth  steadily. 
Therefore  no  other  care  hath  she, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

She  lives  with  little  joy  or  fear. 
Over  the  water,  running  near, 
The  sheepbell  tinkles  in  her  ear. 
Before  her  hangs  a  mirror  clear, 

Reflecting  towered  Camelot, 
And  as  the  mazy  web  she  whirls. 
She  sees  the  surly  village-churls,  etc. 

The  next  stanza  ('  Sometimes  a  troop,'  etc.)  is  unchanged  ; 
and  the  only  alteration  in  the  next  is  '  went  to  Camelot '  for 
•  came  from  Camelot.' 


NOTES.  341 

In  Part  III.  the  fifth  line  of  the  second  and  third  stanzas 
had  '  down  from  Camelot ; '  the  last  line  of  the  third  had 
'  over  green  Shalott ; '  the  eighth  line  of  the  fourth  was 
'  Tirra  lirra,  tirra  lirra ; '  and  the  third  line  of  the  fifth  had 
'  water-flower.' 

In  Part  IV.  the  latter  part  of  the  first  stanza  was  as 
follows :  — 

Outside  the  isle  a  shallow  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  lay  afloat, 
Below  the  carven  stem  she  wrote, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott, 

Then  followed  this  stanza  :  — 

A  cloudwhite  crown  of  pearl  she  dight. 
All  raimented  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  (her  zone  in  sight, 
Clasped  with  one  blinding  diamond  bright) 

Her  wide  eyes  fixed  on  Camelot, 
Though  the  squally  eastwind  keenly 
Blew,  with  folded  arms  serenely 
By  the  water  stood  the  queenly 

Lady  of  Shalott. 

The  next  stanza  opened  thus :  — 

With  a  steady  stony  glance  — 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance. 
Beholding  all  his  own  mischance, 
Mute,  with  a  glassy  countenance  — 

She  looked  down,  to  Camelot. 
It  was  the  closing,  etc. 

The  remaining  stanzas  were  as  follows :  — 
As  when  to  sailors  while  they  roam, 
By  creeks  and  outfalls  far  from  home. 
Rising  and  dropping  with  the  foam, 
From  dying  swans  wild  warblings  come. 

Blown  shoreward  ;  so  to  Camelot 
Still  as  the  boathead  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among. 
They  heard  her  chanting  her  deathsong, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


342  NOTES. 

A  longdrawn  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
She  chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly. 
Till  her  eyes  were  darkened  wholly, 
And  her  smooth  face  sharpened  slowly, 
Turned  to  towered  Camelot : 
For  ere  she  reached,  etc. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 

By  gardenwall  and  gallery, 

A  pale,  pale  corpse  she  floated  by, 

Deadcold,  between  the  houses  high, 

Dead  into  towered  Camelot. 
Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame. 
To  the  planked  wharfage  came  : 
Below  the  stern  they  read  her  name, 

'  The  Lady  of  Shalott.' 

They  crossed  themselves,  their  stars  they  blest, 
Knight,  minstrel,  abbot,  squire,  and  guest. 
There  lay  a  parchment  on  her  breast, 
That  puzzled  more  than  all  the  rest, 

The  wellfed  wits  at  Camelot. 
'  The  web  was  woven  curiously, 
The  charm  is  broken  utterly, 
Draw  near  and  fear  not  —  this  is  I, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.^ 

The  ending  of  the  poem  is  much  improved  by  the  revision. 
The  'wellfed  wits'  (the  epithet  seems  out  of  keeping  here) 
might  well  be  '  puzzled '  by  the  parchment,  which  is  as 
pointless  as  it  is  enigmatical;  but  the  new  ending,  with  its 
introduction  of  Lancelot,  is  most  pathetic  and  suggestive. 

According  to  Palgrave  ('Lyrical  Poems  by  Tennyson'), 
the  poem  was  suggested  by  '  an  Italian  romance  upon  the 
Domta  di  Scalotta,  in  which  Camelot,  unlike  the  Celtic  tradi- 
tion, was  placed  near  the  sea.'  It  is  in  a  very  different  form 
that  the  legend  reappears  in  the  '  Idylls  of  the  King.' 

Page  254. — Dead-pale  between  the  houses  high.  —  The 
reading  of  1842  (and  down  to  1S73)  ^^^^  '  A  corse  between,'  etc. 


NOTES.  343 

Mariana  in  the  South. 

First  printed  in  1833,  but  changed  so  much  in  1842  that  I 
give  the  original  form  in  full :  — 

Behind  the  barren  hill  upsprung 

With  pointed  rocks  against  the  light, 
The  crag  sharpshadowed  overhung 

Each  glaring  creek  and  inlet  bright. 
Far,  far,  one  lightblue  ridge  was  seen, 
Looming  like  baseless  fairyland  ; 
Eastward  a  slip  of  burning  sand, 
Dark-rimmed  with  sea,  and  bare  of  green. 
Down  in  the  dry  salt-marshes  stood 
That  house  darklatticed.     Not  a  breath 
Swayed  the  sick  vineyard  underneath, 
Or  moved  the  dusty  southernwood. 
'  Madonna,'  with  melodious  moan 
Sang  Mariana,  night  and  morn, 
'  Madonna  !  lo  !  I  am  all  alone, 
Love-forgotten  and  love-forlorn.' 

She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew, 

From  her  warm  brow  and  bosom  down 
Through  rosy  taper  fingers  drew 

Her  streaming  curls  of  deepest  brown 
On  either  side,  and  made  appear, 
Still-lighted  in  a  secret  shrine. 
Her  melancholy  eyes  divine, 
The  home  of  woe  without  a  tear. 

Madonna,'  with  melodious  moan 
Sang  Mariana,  night  and  mom, 
'  Madonna  !  lo  !  I  am  all  alone, 
Love-forgotten  and  love-forlorn.' 

When  the  dawncrimson  changed,  and  past 

Into  deep  orange  o'er  the  sea, 
Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast, 

Unto  our  lady  prayed  she. 
She  moved  her  lips,  she  prayed  alone, 

She  praying  disarrayed  and  warm 


344  NOTES. 

From  slumber,  deep  her  wavy  form 
In  the  darkhistrous  mirror  shone. 
'  Madonna,'  in  a  low  clear  tone 
Said  Mariana,  night  and  morn, 
Low  she  mourned,  '  I  am  all  alone, 
Love-forgotten  and  love-forlorn.' 

At  noon  she  slumbered.     All  along 

The  silvery  field,  the  large  leaves  talked 
With  one  another,  as  among 

The  spiked  maize  in  dreams  she  walked. 
The  lizard  leapt :  the  sunlight  played : 
She  heard  the  callow  nestling  lisp. 
And  brimful  meadow-runnels  crisp. 
In  the  full-leaved  platan-shade. 

In  sleep  she  breathed  in  a  lower  tone, 
Murmuring  as  at  night  and  morn, 
'  Madonna !  lo  !  I  am  all  alone. 
Love-forgotten  and  love-forlorn.' 

Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a  dream 

Most  false  :  he  was  and  was  not  there. 
She  woke  :  the  babble  of  the  stream 
Fell,  and  without  the  steady  glare 
Shrank  the  sick  olive  sere  and  small. 
The  riverbed  was  dusty-white; 
From  the  bald  rock  the  blinding  light 
Beat  ever  on  the  sunwhite  wall. 

She  whispered,  with  a  stifled  moan 
More  inward  than  at  night  or  mom, 
'  Madonna,  leave  me  not  all  alone, 
To  die  forgotten  and  live  forlorn.' 

One  dry  cicala's  summer  song 
At  night  filled  all  the  gallery, 

Backward  the  latticeblind  she  flung. 
And  leaned  upon  the  balcony. 

Ever  the  low  wave  seemed  to  roll 
Up  to  the  coast :  far  on,  alone 
In  the  East,  large  Hesper  overshone 

The  mourning  gulf,  and  on  her  soul 


NOTES.  345 

Poured  divine  solace,  or  the  rise 
Of  moonlight  from  the  margin  gleamed, 
Volcano-like,  afar,  and  streamed 

On  her  white  arm,  and  heavenward  eyes. 
Not  all  alone  she  made  her  moan, 
Yet  ever  sang  she,  night  and  morn, 
'  Madonna !  lo  !  I  am  all  alone. 
Love-forgotten  and  love-forlorn.' 

The  only  change  since  1S42  is  in  the  fifth  line  of  the  fifth 
stanza,  which  in  that  edition  retains  the  original  '  Shrank  the 
sick  olive,'  etc. 

Page  260.  —  At  eve  a  dry  cicala  sung.  —  Cicala  is  the 
Italian  for  cicada.  Compare  Browning,  '  Pippa  Passes,' 
prol. :  'Nor  yet  cicala  dared  carouse.' 

The  Two  Voices. 

First  published  in  1842  (when  it  was  dated  iS33),and  unal- 
tered except  in  the  last  stanza  but  one,  the  first  line  of  which 
was  originally  'So  variously  seem'd  all  things  wrought.' 

The  poem,  according  to  Palgrave  (who  unquestionably 
writes  '  with  authority '),  describes  '  the  conflict  in  a  soul 
between  Scepticism  and  Faith.' 

Page  261.  —  To-day  I  saw  the  dragon-fly,  etc.  —  This  utter- 
ance of  the  Voice  has  been  variously  interpreted.  Peter 
Bayne  (who  is  followed  by  Professor  Corson)  understands  it 
to  mean  '  that  the  shuffling  off  of  this  mortal  coil  may  open 
to  him  new  spheres  of  energy  and  happiness  ; '  and  that  '  the 
reply  of  the  poet  is  that  man  is  nature's  highest  product, 
—  the  obvious  suggestion  being  that  there  is  no  splendid 
dragon-fly  into  which  the  human  grub,  released  by  death,  is 
likely  to  develop.'  But  (as  I  remarked  in  my  '  Select  Poems 
of  Tennyson,'  in  1884)  this  'suggestion,'  so  far  from  being 
'  obvious,'  seems  to  me  merely  a  desperate  attempt  to 
make  the  reference  to  the  higher  nature  of  man  a  '  reply  '  to 
what  the  critic  assumes  that  the  Voice  means  to  say.  For 
myself,  I  had  no  hesitation  in  adopting  Tainsh's  interpreta- 
tion of  the  passage:  'A  dragon-fly  is  more  wonderful  than 


346  NOTES. 

you ; '  and  Lord  Tennyson  afterwards  explained  it  to  me  in 
almost  the  same  words  :  '  The  dragon-fly  is  as  wonderful  as 
you.' 

Page  264.  —  The  thorn  will  blow.  —  That  is,  the  hawthorn. 

Page  265.  —  The  furzy  prickle.  —  The  prickly  furze,  or 
gorse. 

Page  268.  —  When,  wide  in  soul  and  bold  of  tongue,  etc.  — 
No  doubt  Professor  Corson  is  right  in  seeing  in  this  and  the 
following  stanzas  an  allusion  to  the  poet's  university  life. 
Compare  p.  27  above. 

Page  270. —  The  riddle  of  the  earth.  —  Compare  'The 
Palace  of  Art ' :  — 

Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 
Flash'd  thro'  her  as  she  sat  alone. 

Page  271. — Sometimes  a  little  corner  shines,  etc. —  See 
p.  17  above. 

Page  273.  —  Like  Stephen,  an  iinqnenched  fire.  —  See  p.  21 
above. 

The  elements  were  kitidlier  mix^d.  —  An  allusion  to  the  old 
notion  that  man  was  composed  of  the  four  elements,  earth, 
air,  fire,  and  water,  and  that  the  well-balanced  mixture  of 
these  produced  the  perfection  of  humanity.  Compare 
Shakespeare,  '  Julius  Caesar,'  v.  5.  73  :  — 

His  life  was  gentle,  and  the  elements 

So  mix'd  in  him  that  Nature  might  stand  up 

And  say  to  all  the  world,  '  This  was  a  man  ! ' 

Page  280.  —  Some  draught  of  Lethe,  etc.  —  Compare  Virgil, 
'.(^neid,'  vi.  748  fol. 

Page  286.  —  You  scarce  could  see  the  grass  for  flowers.  — 
Compare  George  Peele,  '  Araynment  of  Paris  ' :  — 

And  rounde  about  the  valley  as  ye  passe, 

Ye  may  ne  see,  for  peeping  floures,  the  grasse. 


NOTES.  347 

The  Miller's  Daughter. 

First  printed  in  1833,  but  much  changed  in  1842.  It  origi- 
nally began  with  this  stanza  :  — 

I  met  in  all  the  close  green  ways, 

While  walking  with  my  line  and  rod, 
The  wealthy  miller's  mealy  face, 

Like  the  moon  in  an  ivy-tod. 
He  look'd  so  jolly  and  so  good, 

While  fishing  in  the  mill-dam  water, 
I  laugh'd  to  see  him  as  he  stood, 

And  dreamt  not  of  the  miller's  daughter. 

The  second  stanza,  now  the  first,  remains  unaltered,  and 
the  only  change  in  the  next  is  '  can  make  '  for  '  makes  '  in  the 
last  line.  In  the  next  (third)  stanza,  the  original  reading  in 
the  second  line  was  '  My  darling  Alice,'  and  '  my  own  sweet 
wife '  in  the  sixth  line. 

The  fourth  stanza  ('Have  I  not  found,'  etc.)  was  added 
in  1842. 

The  fifth  stanza  originally  stood  thus  :  — 

My  father's  mansion,  mounted  high. 
Looked  down  upon  the  village  spire. 

I  was  a  long  and  listless  boy, 
And  son  and  heir  unto  the  squire. 

In  these  dear  walls,  where  I  and  you 
Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long, 

Each  morn  my  sleep,  etc. 

The  sixth  stanza  began :  — 

I  often  heard  the  cooing  dove 

In  firry  woodlands  mourn  alone  ; 
But  ere  I  saw,  etc. 

The  last  line  had  '  the  long '  for  '  those  long.' 
The  seventh  stanza  was  as  follows  :  — 

Sometimes  I  whistled  in  the  wind, 

Sometimes  I  angled,  thought  and  deed 

Torpid,  as  swallows  left  behind 

That  vdnter  'neath  the  floating  weed : 


348  NOTES. 

At  will  to  wander  everyway 

From  brook  to  brook  my  sole  delight, 
As  lithe  eels  over  meadows  gray 

Oft  shift  their  glimmering  pool  by  night. 

The  eighth  stanza  was  the  one  now  made  the  thirteenth, 
and  the  first  quatrain  read  thus  :  — 

How  dear  to  me  in  youth,  my  love, 

Was  everything  about  the  mill  — 
The  black  and  silent  pool  above. 

The  pool  beneath  that  ne'er  stood  still,  etc. 

The  ninth  and  tenth  were  as  follows  :  — 

I  loved  from  off  the  bridge  to  hear 

The  rushing  sound  the  water  made, 
And  see  the  fish  that  everywhere 

In  the  backcurrent  glanced  and  played  : 
Low  down  the  tall  fiagfiower  that  sprung 

Beside  the  noisy  steppingstones. 
And  the  massed  chestnutboughs  that  hung 

Thickstudded  over  with  white  cones. 

Remember  you  that  pleasant  day 

When,  after  roving  in  the  woods, 
('T  was  April  then)  I  came  and  lay 

Beneath  those  gummy  chestnutbuds 
That  glistened  in  the  April  blue 

Upon  the  slope  so  smooth  and  cool, 
I  lay  and  never  thought  of  you, 

But  angled  in  the  deep  millpool. 

The  stanza  beginning  '  A  love-song,'  etc.,  was  not  in  the 
original  version,  which  continued  thus:  — 

A  water-rat  from  off  the  bank 

Plunged  in  the  stream.     With  idle  care, 
Downlooking  through  the  sedges  rank, 

I  saw  your  troubled  image  there. 
Upon  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck 

It  wandered  like  a  floating  light, 
A  full  fair  form,  a  warm  white  neck. 

And  two  white  arms  —  how  rosy  white  ! 


NOTES.  349 

If  you  remember,  you  had  set 

Upon  the  narrow  casement-edge 
A  long  green  box  of  mignonette, 

And  you  were  leaning  from  the  ledge. 
I  raised  my  eyes  at  once  :  above 

They  met  two  eyes  so  blue  and  bright, 
Such  eyes  !  I  swear  to  you,  my  love, 

That  they  have  never  lost  their  light. 

The    next   (thirteenth)   stanza,  now   suppressed,   was    as 
follows  :  — 

That  slope  beneath  the  chestnut  tall. 

Is  wooed  with  choicest  breaths  of  air  ; 
Methinks  that  I  could  tell  you  all 

The  cowslips  and  the  kingcups  there  ; 
Each  coltsfoot  down  the  grassy  bent, 

Whose  round  leaves  hold  the  gathered  shower, 
Each  quaintly-folded  cuckoo-pint, 

And  silver-paly  cuckoo  flower. 

The  fourteenth  was  :  — 

In  rambling  on  the  eastern  wold, 

When  thro'  the  showery  April  nights 
Their  hueless  crescent  glimmered  cold, 

From  all  the  other  village  lights 
I  knew  your  taper  far  away. 

My  heart  was  full  of  trembling  hope, 
Down  from  the  wold  I  came  and  lay 

Upon  the  dewy  swarded  slope. 

The  fifteenth  was  as  follows  :  — 

The  white  chalkquarry  from  the  hill 

Upon  the  broken  ripple  gleamed, 
I  murmured  lowly,  sitting  still. 

While  round  my  feet  the  eddy  streamed : 
*  Oh  !  that  I  were  the  wreath  she  wears. 

The  mirror  where  her  sight  she  feeds. 
The  song  she  sings,  the  air  she  breathes. 

The  letters  of  the  book  she  reads.' 


35°  NOTES. 

The  sixteenth  was  identical  with   the   present   sixteenth, 
*  Sometimes  I  saw  you  sit  and  spin,'  etc. 
The  seventeenth  was  :  — 

I  loved,  but  when  I  dared  to  speak 

My  love,  the  lawns  were  white  with  May  ; 

Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,  but  your  cheek 
Flushed  like  the  coming  of  the  day  : 

Rosecheekt,  roselipt,  half-sly,  half-shy, 
You  would,  etc. 

'  May,'  which  may  have  been   a  misprint,  was  changed   to 
'  may '  in  1842. 

The  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  (afterwards  omitted  to 
make  room  for  the  three  new  ones,  in  which  Alice  is  brought 
to  visit  his  mother,  —  the  present  eighteenth,  nineteenth,  and 
twentieth)  were  as  follows  :  — 

Remember  you  the  clear  moonlight 

That  whitened  all  the  eastern  ridge,      v 
When  o'er  the  water,  dancing  white, 

I  stept  upon  the  old  mill-bridge  ? 
I  heard  you  whisper  from  above 

A  lute-toned  whisper, '  I  am  here  ; ' 
I  murmured,  '  Speak  again,  my  love, 

The  stream  is  loud ;  1  cannot  hear.' 

I  heard,  as  I  have  seemed  to  hear. 

When  all  the  under  air  was  still. 
The  low  voice  of  the  glad  new  year 

Call  to  the  freshly-flowered  hill. 
I  heard,  as  I  have  often  heard, 

The  nightingale  in  leafy  woods 
Call  to  its  mate,  when  nothing  stirred 

To  left  or  right  but  falling  floods. 

The  twentieth  stanza  was  as  follows  :  — 

Come,  Alice,  sing  to  me  the  song 

I  made  you  on  our  marriageday, 
When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along 

Half-tearfully,  and  you  were  gay 


NOTES.  351 

With  brooch  and  ring  :  for  I -shall  seem, 
The  while  you  sing  that  song,  to  hear 

The  millwheel  turning  in  the  stream. 
And  the  green  chestnut  whisper  near. 

The  '  Song  '  was  originally  this  :  — 

I  wish  I  were  her  earring 

Ambushed  in  auburn  ringlets  sleek, 
(So  might  my  shadow  tremble 

Over  her  downy  cheek) 
Hid  in  her  hair,  all  day  and  night, 
Touching  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

I  wish  I  were  the  girdle 

Buckled  about  her  dainty  waist, 
That  her  heart  might  beat  against  me 

In  sorrow  and  in  rest. 
I  should  know  well  if  it  beat  right, 
I  'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

I  wish  I  were  her  necklace, 

So  might  I  ever  fall  and  rise 
Upon  her  balmy  bosom 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs. 
I  would  lie  round  so  warm  and  light 
I  would  not  be  unclasped  at  night. 

The  next  stanzas  (twenty-first  and  twenty-second)  were: 

A  trifle,  sweet,  which  true  love  spells  — 

True  love  interprets  right  alone ; 
For  o'er  each  letter  broods  and  dwells 

(Like  light  from  running  waters  thrown 
On  flowery  swaths)  the  blissful  flame 

Of  his  sweet  eyes,  that,  day  and  night. 
With  pulses  thrilling  thro'  his  frame 

Do  inly  tremble,  starrybright. 

How  I  waste  language  —  yet  in  truth 
You  must  blame  love,  whose  early  rage 

Made  me  a  rhymester  in  my  youth, 
And  over-garrulous  in  age. 


352  NOTES. 

Sing  me  that  other  song  I  made, 

Half-angered  with  my  happy  lot, 
When  in  the  breezy  limewood-shade 

1  found  the  blue  forget-me-not. 

This  was  the  second  '  Song ' :  — 

All  yesternight  you  met  me  not. 
My  ladylove,  forget  me  not. 
When  I  am  gone,  regret  me  not, 
But,  here  or  there,  forget  me  not. 
With  your  arched  eyebrow  threat  me  not, 
And  tremulous  eyes,  like  April  skies, 

That  seem  to  say,  '  forget  me  not.' 

I  pray  you,  love,  forget  me  not. 

In  idle  sorrow  set  me  not ; 
Regret  me  not :  forget  me  not : 
Oh  1  leave  me  not ;  oh,  let  me  not 
Wear  quite  away  ;  —  forget  me  not. 
With  roguish  laughter  fret  me  not 
From  dewy  eyes,  like  April  skies. 

That  ever  look,  '  forget  me  not,' 

Blue  as  the  blue  forget-me-not. 

The  twenty-third  stanza  is  unaltered  from  the  one  begin- 
ning '  Look  thro'  mine  eyes  with  thine,'  etc. ;  and  the  twenty- 
fourth  and  last  is  the  same  that  now  ends  the  poem,  except 
that  the  first  quatrain  reads  thus  :  — 

I  've  half  a  mind  to  walk,  my  love. 

To  the  old  mill  across  the  wolds. 
For  look  !  the  sunset  from  above 

Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds,  etc. 

The  present  twenty-fifth  and  twenty-sixth  stanzas  ('  Yet 
tears  they  shed,'  etc.)  were  added  in  1842.  In  the  seventh  line 
of  the  twenty-fifth  all  the  American  editions  that  I  have  seen 
(from  1842  down)  have  '  the  loss  that  brought '  instead  of 
'  had  brought.' 


NOTES.  353 


Fatima. 


Reprinted  in  1842  from  the  volume  of  1833,  where,  instead  of 
the  present  title,  it  has  for  heading  the  following  quotation : 

4>a(j'6Tof  fioi  Krjvos  fffos  0eo7cnv 
EfifiiV  avT]p.  —  Sappho. 

The  second  stanza  was  added  in  1842.  The  only  other 
change  from  the  original  version  is  the  substitution  of  '  from  ' 
for  '  at '  in  the  second  line  of  the  poem. 

CEnone. 

First  printed  in  1833,  but  materially  altered  in  1842  and 
slightly  since. 

The  poem  originally  began  thus  :  — 

There  is  a  dale  in  Ida,  lovelier 

Than  any  in  old  Ionia,  beautiful 

With  emerald  slopes  of  sunny  sward,  that  lean 

Above  the  loud  glenriver,  which  hath  worn 

A  path  thro'  steepdown  granite  walls  below 

Mantled  with  flowering  tendriltwine.     In  front 

The  cedarshadowy  valleys  open  wide. 

Far-seen,  high  over  all  the  Godbuilt  wall 

And  many  a  snowycolumned  range  divine, 

Mounted  with  awful  sculptures  —  men  and  Gods, 

The  work  of  Gods  —  bright  on  the  darkblue  sky 

The  windy  citadel  of  Ilion 

Shone,  like  the  crown  of  Troas.     Hither  came 

Mournful  CEnone,  wandering  forlorn 

Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate.     Round  her  neck, 

Her  neck  all  marblewhite  and  marblecold, 

Floated  her  hair  or  seemed  to  float  in  rest. 

She,  leaning  on  a  vine-entwined  stone, 

Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain-shadow 

Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the  upper  chff. 

'  O  mother  Ida.  manyfountained  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
VOL.   I.  —  23 


354  NOTES. 

The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass, 

The  Hzard  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone 

Sleeps  like  a  shadow,  and  the  scarletwinged  i 

Cicala  in  the  noonday  leapeth  not. 

Along  the  water-rounded  granite-rock 

The  purple  flower  droops  :  the  golden  bee,  etc. 

The  text  then  goes  on  without  change  (except  the  insertion 
of  the  line,  '  I  waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills,'  which  is 
not  in  the  first  version)  to  the  line,  '  Came  up  from  reedy 
Simois  all  alone.'    It  then  proceeds  as  follows  :  — 

'  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

I  sate  alone :  the  goldensandalled  morn 

Rosehued  the  scornful  hills  :  I  sate  alone 

With  downdropt  eyes  :  whitebreasted  like  a  star 

Fronting  the  dawn  he  came  :  a  leopard  skin 

From  his  white  shoulder  drooped :  his  sunny  hair 

Clustered  about  his  temples  like  a  God's  : 

And  his  cheek  brightened,  as  the  foambow  brightens 

When  the  wind  blows  the  foam  ;  and  I  called  out, 

"  Welcome,  Apollo,  welcome  home,  Apollo, 

Apollo,  my  Apollo,  loved  Apollo." 

'  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

He,  mildly  smiling,  in  his  milkwhite  palm 

Close-held  a  golden  apple,  lightningbright 

With  changeful  flashes,  dropt  with  dew  of  Heaven 

Ambrosially  smelling.     From  his  lip. 

Curved  crimson,  the  fullflowing  river  of  speech 

Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

"  My  own  CEnone, 
Beautifulbrowed  CEnone,  mine  own  soul. 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind  ingrav'n 
'  For  the  most  fair '  in  aftertime  may  breed 
Deep  evilwilledness  of  heaven  and  sere 
Heartburning  toward  hallowed  Ilion  ; 

1  In  the  Pyrenees,  where  part  of  this  poem  was  written,  I  saw  a 
very  beautiful  species  of  Cicala,  which  had  scarlet  wings  spotted  with 
black.     Probably  nothing  of  the  kind  exists  in  Mount  Ida. 


NOTES.  355 

And  all  the  colour  of  my  afterlife 
Will  be  the  shadow  of  today.     Today 
Here  and  Pallas  and  the  floating  grace 
Of  laugh terloving  Aphrodite  meet 
In  manyfolded  Ida  to  receive 
This  meed  of  beauty,  she  to  whom  my  hand 
Award  the  palm.     Within  the  green  hillside, 
Under  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest  pine, 
Is  an  ingoing  grotto,  strown  with  spar 
And  ivymatted  at  the  mouth,  wherein 
Thou  unbeholden  may'st  behold,  unheard 
Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of  Gods." 

'  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 

It  was  the  deep  midnoon  :  one  silvery  cloud 

Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piney  hills. 

They  came  —  all  three  —  the  Olympian  goddesses : 

Naked  they  came  to  the  smoothswarded  bower, 

Lustrous  with  lilyflower,  violeteyed 

Both  white  and  blue,  with  lotetree-fruit  thickset, 

Shadowed  with  singing  pine  ;  and  all  the  while, 

Above,  the  overwandering  ivy  and  vine 

This  way  and  that  in  many  a  wild  festoon 

Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 

With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro'  and  thro'. 

On  the  treetops  a  golden  glorious  cloud 

Leaned,  slowly  dropping  down  ambrosial  dew. 

How  beautiful  they  were,  too  beautiful 

To  look  upon  !  but  Paris  was  to  me 

More  lovelier  than  all  the  world  beside. 

'  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die. 
First  spake  the  imperial  Olympian 
With  arched  eyebrow  smiling  sovranly, 
Fulleyed  Here.     She  to  Paris  made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestioned,  overflowing  revenue 
Wherewith  to  embellish  state  "  from  many  a  vale 
And  riversundered  champaign  clothed  with  com, 
Or  upland  glebe  wealthy  in  oil  and  wine  — 
Honour  and  homage,  tribute,  tax  and  toll 


356  NOTES. 

From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven  large, 
Mast-thronged  below  her  shadowing  citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers." 

'  O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  1  die. 

Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake  of  power 

"  Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all. 

Power  fitted  to  the  season,  measured  by 

The  height  of  the  general  feeling,  wisdomborn 

And  throned  of  wisdom  —  from  all  neighbour  crowns 

Alliance  and  allegiance  evermore. 

Such  boon  from  me  Heaven's  Queen  to  thee  kingborn,"  etc. 

The  next  six  lines  follov^r  without  change,  and  the  speech 
of  Juno  ends  with  these  two  lines,  afterwards  suppressed  : 

The  changeless  calm  of  undisputed  right. 

The  highest  height  and  topmost  strength  of  power. 

There  is  no  change  in  the  next  ten  lines,  except  '  Flattered 
his  spirit '  for  '  Flatter'd  his  heart.' 

The  speech  of  Pallas  originally  stood  thus  : 

'  Self  reverence,  self  knowledge,  self  control 

Are  the  three  hinges  of  the  gates  of  Life, 

That  open  into  power,  everyway 

Without  horizon,  bound  or  shadow  or  cloud. 

Yet  not  for  power  (power  of  herself 

Will  come  uncalled-for)  but  to  live  by  law, 

Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear, 

And  because  right  is  right,  to  follow  right 

Were  wisdom,  in  the  scorn  of  consequence. 

(Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I  die.) 

Not  as  men  value  gold  because  it  tricks 

And  blazons  outward  Life  with  ornament. 

But  rather  as  the  miser,  for  itself. 

Good  for  self  good  doth  half  destroy  selfgood. 

The  means  and  end,  like  two  coiled  snakes,  infect 

Each  other,  bound  in  one  with  hateful  love. 

So  both  into  the  fountain  and  the  stream 

A  drop  of  poison  falls.     Come  hearken  to  me. 

And  look  upon  me  and  consider  me. 

So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest,  so  endurance, 


NOTES.  357 

Like  to  an  athlete's  arm,  shall  still  become 
Sinew'd  with  motion,  till  thine  active  will 
(As  the  dark  body  of  the  Sun  robed  round 
With  his  own  ever-emanating  lights) 
Be  flooded  o'er  with  her  own  effluences, 
And  thereby  grow  to  freedom.' 

Here  she  ceased,  etc. 

The  next  five  lines  are  unchanged,  and  the  poem  then  goes 
on  thus :  — 

Idalian  Aphrodite  oceanbom, 
Fresh  as  the  foam,  newbathed  in  Paphian  wells, 
With  rosy  slender  fingers  upward  drew 
From  her  wai^m  brow  and  bosom  her  dark  hair 
Fragrant  and  thick,  and  on  her  head  upbound 
In  a  purple  band  :  below  her  lucid  neck 
Shone  ivorylike,  and  from  the  ground  her  foot 
Gleamed  rosywhite,  and  o'er  her  rounded  form 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vinebunches 
Floated  the  glowing  sunlights,  as  she  moved. 

There  is  no  change  in  the  next  twenty-four  lines  except 
that,  instead  of  the  three  lines  beginning  '  She  spoke  and 
laugh'd,'  the  first  version  has  these  two :  — 

I  only  saw  my  Paris  raise  his  arm : 

I  only  saw  great  Here's  angry  eyes,  etc. 

In  the  remainder  of  the  poem  the  changes  are  few  and 
slight.  In  the  first  line  on  p.  312  ('  O  mother,  hear  me  yet,' 
etc.)  the  earlier  reading  is  '  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I 
die ; '  and  so  also  at  the  beginning  of  the  last  paragraph  on 
p.  314.  The  third  line  on  p.  313  was  '  Oh !  mother  Ida, 
hearken  ere  I  die  ; '  and  the  next  paragraph  began  with  '  Yet, 
mother  Ida,  hear  me  ere  I  die.'  On  p.  312,  for  the  four  lines 
beginning  '  My  dark  tall  pines,'  the  original  reading  was  :  — 

My  dark  tall  pines,  that  plumed  the  craggy  ledge 
High  over  the  blue  gorge,  or  lower  down 
Filling  greengulphed  Ida,  all  between 
The  snowy  peak  and  snowwhite  cataract 
Fostered  the  callow  eaglet  —  from  beneath,  etc. 


358  NOTES. 

The  second  paragraph  on  the  same  page,  ending  with  the 
second  line  on  p.  313,  was  inserted  in  1842.     For  the  three 
lines  on  p.  314,  beginning  '  Ere  it  is  born,'  the  first  version  has  j 
only  the  line,  '  Ere  it  is  born.     I  will  not  die  alone.' 

Page  303. — And  the  winds  are  dead. — All  the  editions  I 
have  seen  down  to  1884  have  'and  the  cicala  sleeps;'  and  in 
the  next  line  '  The  purple  flowers  droop.'  It  probably 
occurred  to  the  poet  that  the  introduction  of  the  cicala,  or 
cicada  (the  Greek  cicada,  not  our  insect  so  called),  was  too 
nearly  a  repetition  of  that  of  the  grasshopper. 

As  yotider  walls  Rose  slowly  to  a  music,  etc.  —  Compare 
'  Tithonus  ' :  — 

Like  that  strange  song  I  heard  Apollo  sing 
While  Ilion  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 

For  the  myth,  see  Ovid,  '  Heroides,'  xv.  179;  and  for  a 
similar  legend  concerning  the  origin  of  Camelot,  see  '  Gareth 
and  Lynette.' 

Page  308.  —  Rest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats.  — 
Compare  '  The  Lotos-Eaters  ' :  — 

For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the  bolts  are  hurl'd 

Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the  clouds  are  lightly  curl'd 

Round  their  golden  houses,  etc. 

The  Sisters. 

Reprinted  in  1842  from  the  1833  volume,  with  no  change 
except  '  and '  for  '  an' '  in  '  turret  and  tree.' 


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